The Call of the Crow
by Maggie Wilde
Summary: In the year 1997, Tom Riddle, rejuvenated from his Horcrux, the diary, disguises himself as a teacher at Hogwarts, hoping to gain influence. Muggle-born Stella Shelley, a Healing Assistant, is thrown into his path. Despite his hatred for her, he can't quite seem to get rid of her...
1. Prologue: Marions & The M4

**Author's Note; ** is my first fanfiction (eek) so hope you enjoy it. While not a 'typical romance' it does have afflictions of that kind. I have checked any mistakes, but I'm pretty blind sometimes, so if there is any major hitch, feel free to say! As I have never posted anything before, I would love some reviews, it would be a nice breath of fresh to hear what people think of my writing! I will try my best to update, as I'm free from studying now (although not free from anything completely).

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter of any kind or sort. I own nothing, just my own whacky (or not) characters. (Do I have to put this up for every chapter?) **

**Prologue**

**MARIONS AND THE M4**

British, typically English, residential areas of neat, tucked away houses seemed dreadfully dull and lacklustre to the girl who nearly tripped up over her own feet. She whipped out an extra jacket, denim, when the clouds opened and poured down the heavy unrelenting rain. The road was quiet, save for the distant traffic behind her. Birds had stopped chattering.

Her ashen blonde hair was soon plastered to her head, as the rain pelted down harder than previous. It was her last shift at Marions. She'd worked there since she had been sixteen. People came and went for their fish, and their chips. She started jogging to the end of the road, water dribbling down into her eyes. Her work mate, Carla, was probably shaking her head, and tapping her watch. The gossipy girls at the back were probably giggling. She thought of them as the back burners. They dealt with cooking the fish, cooking the chips. She ran out of breath and slowed down, heart pounding. Unfit, unpunctual and hopelessly drowned, like a rat. She owned no other jackets other than her father's old denim one. She had her fashionable, thin robes, but that, really, was fit when she walked among the wizarding folk.

Two separate fashions for two separate worlds. There was no such thing, as wizards around this place. She slowed completely down, and started to stare at the cooped-up houses she passed. Little brick houses with neat driveways and trimmed, perfect lawns. Linen curtains, and from a glimpse inside, pretty, delicate photograph frames on top of an elegant fireplace. Imagine, living the rest of your life there.

With your little perfect car, and the same routine, day in day out. Drive to work, drive back again for dinner. Start again. Live there, until you retire, wondering where everything went. She felt a stab of something and began running again. Marions was surprisingly quiet, but she rushed in, hung her coat up on the peg, and apologised to Carla. Carla spoke nothing. They began working. They began chatting, small talk as usual, about what their lives entailed. The shift would last for another seven hours before she'd be free. There were rude customers, unhelpful, overly polite, casual that flitted in and out. She let the thoughts about the rest of the day filter through her mind, as she swept the floor when it became quiet once more.

Her mother wanted to see her when the shift ended at five. They lived on the outskirts of London in a rather old-fashioned house. Her mother, Questa Verne, was in her late forties and divorced. Her younger brothers were still growing, still at primary school. She didn't know what her mother wanted to talk to her about. They'd never, quite had a firm relationship. Her mother never had a firm relationship with her father at all. She hardly heard from her father. The last time she heard, was that he changed jobs. He never said what it was, or what it was before that.

She just knew he lived out in the country, Wiltshire, with one lazy dog and a bottle of rum for the keep. She uttered a farewell to Carla, who distractedly waved goodbye as she chatted with one of the younger girls. She crossed the road, slipping her now dry denim jacket on. The rain was gone, the clouds still there though. She spied a corner shop further down the street and walked in. An Asian man was stood restlessly at the counter, dully shuffling the tobacco packets around behind him. An old woman stood at one end of an aisle, deciding between a packet of Bourbons, or a packet of Custard Creams, inevitably the same price. She bought a bottle of Gordon's Dry Gin and 7up. He asked for her ID.

She bought a couple of chocolate bars for her brothers. They'd have to be disappointed this time. Mars bars instead of chocolate frogs. Still, she'd kept a couple of new cards for them. Her best friend, Elsa Neave, had an inexplicable habit of hoarding. She probably had nearly all the cards. She owned a small Volkswagen Golf, and it was parked in a tiny lay-by on the other side of the road. She felt the oppressive clouds above her. She sat in the car, as the rained pelted down once more.

"Only my luck today, rain," she spoke in the emptiness of the car, her voice echoing.

She unscrewed the cap of the gin. She opened the door a little and poured half the 7up into the street. An old man walking his dog, holding up a large umbrella stopped and watched her for a little. She paid him no attention, and slammed the door. She poured half the gin into the bottle of 7up. She sat in the car, watching the rain, and drank. Once she felt a little better, she started the engine, and drove to her mother's. Within an hour, Elsa would probably want to see her.

The radio played some sort of tune, as she continued to sip her mixed gin, as she zoomed out of London. The clouds were blackening considerably, almost too quickly for her liking. She frowned and turned the music up a little. The wind was howling against her car, despite the music.

Something was not quite right, but she refused to acknowledge it. The darkened clouds began swirling menacingly fast in the air, and people on the roads glanced up at the unnatural goings-on. To any simple non-magical folk, this vaguely appeared strangely like a tornado, with gusts of winds tearing at trees and traffic lights swinging.

She swung the car to the hard shoulder, letting the rest of the cars fly past her on the heaving motorway. The dark clouds briefly parted and closed again. She watched, drunk, from the seat of her car. She knew what it was; she knew what was up there, making those clouds so black, making them whoosh so fast, the mind's eye unable to keep with it. She saw a tanker swerve a little on the other side of the road. Cars red lights flashed everywhere, people stopping to see a commotion that was inevitable.

The tanker flipped right onto its side. She heard the terrible crunching of metal on tarmac, the squeaking, shrill sounds that pierced the air. All cars stopped.

All she could see was the blinding red lights simultaneously appear, and in the corner of her eye, several dark figures flew through the air. Wizards, she concluded. Dark wizards, and narrowed her eyes. Sheryl Crow was singing softly on the radio, a most unusual contrast to the mind-numbingly terrible scene in front of her. Miles down the road, there was a small explosion, and the sky was soon filled with streaks of orange, yellow and black. She saw debris fly through the air. The news cut Crow out. The M4 was suddenly a shamble. She just watched in fascinated horror, still drunk, and drunker.

The small phone lying on the seat next to her began buzzing, and she idly glanced at it. _Mum. _She didn't pick it up, and took another drink. She kept seeing the figures fly ever so swiftly through the air. Cars began overturning, and some caught fire. She sensed something, and Elsa Neave was suddenly in the Golf with her, sitting on the buzzing phone.

A loud pop resonated within the car. She analysed the surroundings of the unfamiliar machine she was in. She frowned and leaned across.

"Oh for Merlin's sake," she tutted, and reached across for the bottle, and tipped it out on the tarmac outside, after waving her wand and the window shot open. She frowned again and retrieved the vibrating thing that her buttocks rested upon.

"Your mother," she sighed.

The girl waved her hand dismissively, and sat watching the scene unfold before her, chin cupped in hand. Elsa sighed and put it on the dashboard gingerly, the thing jumping around as the girl's mother didn't stop calling.

"Let's get out of here. There's a party on tonight. You should've saved that," Elsa commented, pointing at the half empty gin bottle.

The girl continued to watch the road ahead. If she wasn't drunk, she would have been horrified, worried about the status of her car. Elsa was accomplished in Apparition, and the girl had many uncomfortable experiences with that method of travel. It happened Elsa was completely oblivious to the Muggle World, and had no pleasure in vehicle travel.

"I'll just wait for this to calm down, and drive. Besides, my mum…" Elsa rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"You didn't…well you didn't pick up that!" Elsa said stoutly, pointing at the bulky thing on the dashboard.

"My car, Elsa…" The girl replied, becoming irritable.

The whole situation was ridiculous and unnatural. She shouldn't be arguing with a witch in the middle of a supernatural assault of cars on the M4 motorway. She watched with tired eyes people beginning to get out of their cars and run up the steep banks beside the motorway. She watched people slip in their anxious hurries. Another small explosion that rattled the window panes of the car. Elsa was tapping her wand against the gear stick irritably.

"You're drunk! Come on, you'll collect it later. I'll put a disillusionment charm on it, don't worry."

The girl started it up and drove it up a little onto the bank, so that it was out of the lane of the hard shoulder. Elsa smiled, and held her hand out. The girl eyed it warily, and picked up her shoulder bag. Tightly holding onto Elsa's hand, she was whisked and thrown; her body felt like it was being pushed into an impossibly tight space. She felt like someone was cramming her into a tiny little jar, and failing greatly. She thought about her life ahead of her. She thought about the terrible scene she had just been whisked away from. Dark wizards. Death Eaters. She thought about the life she left behind, and felt a stab of pain in her chest, her mind not wanting to acknowledge it.

Drunk and suddenly downtrodden by her own memories and thoughts, she fell over when they landed in the little wizarding community of Zedlock. Similar to Hogsmeade near Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the houses were all very old-world, and people walked amongst themselves in completely different attire to outside Marions.

Elsa sighed loudly and smiled brightly, despite the rain which, yet again, began to pour down. The girl had tripped when they arrived, her hands catching on the cobbled stones of the street.

"So much better. Come on, let's go to mine. I know yours is further down, but mine is far nicer," spoke her companion. "Then perhaps you can sober up and think about your life, Stella Shelley."

Stella shook her head, and hitched her bag further up on her shoulder. People who were trying to shelter briefly from the rain under canopies of grocery and food shops gazed at her unfamiliar attire of jeans and a white polo shirt; standard clothing for her if she wasn't witching or wizarding it. Elsa took her arm and walked with a bounce in her step.

Yes, thought Stella, let's think about my life, currently at 1997, however brief that thought will be.


	2. Geoff Moorcraft and the Life Before

**GEOFF MOORCRAFT AND THE LIFE BEFORE**

Stella had been born to Muggle parents in April 1975, a mother who had a hippy-ish tendency and a Conservative father always grumbling about the world. A typical Brit, thought Stella sardonically whenever she pondered on the subject of her father, which was rarely. She'd never connected with her parents as a child, and she'd been twelve when her first brother, Alex, had been born. They lived in Lincolnshire in a tiny terraced house.

As a lonely child, she was often left on her own; her father was always at the office, and her mother was always out gallivanting with friends. She'd be left with an awkward babysitter. So, one day she discovered she had an odd tendency which leant close to magic. She'd wish all day it would rain; instead there'd be a flood in her room. She could make things her father owned disappear and draw him into a grumpy rage. She'd badly wish for company when alone, and suddenly her friends and family wouldn't leave her non-stop for a couple of days.

Stella's parents divorced after her youngest brother, Dane, has been born four years ago. They'd never really been in love, and her mother, the hippy drug-induced, affairs with younger men days were over, fell into a steep decline. Whenever she wanted to see her only daughter was to moan about the life which she had inevitably lived and missed.

In some ways, Elsa Neave, Stella's best friend from school, reminded her terribly of her mother. Always wanting to be the centre of attention. Always wanting the company of masses of friends and to be doing all the events and life experiences at once. Always complaining that she didn't have good enough clothes for today's fashion. Not that the wizarding world's fashion had changed much since virtually the Stone Age, Stella often thought dryly.

Elsa had been with her in her house, Hufflepuff, and her year, since day one. She'd introduced herself when she parked into the carriage, along with a frightened little boy whom Stella had the most excruciating conversation with. Because Elsa had toned up the atmosphere a little, Stella liked her. Now Elsa was working in a fashion shop in Diagon Alley, trying to introduce Muggle attire into wizarding fashion, of course, with a twist. A twist indeed, Stella pondered, once she came across a book showing nineteen-twenties fashions. A snort erupted from her mouth. Elsa had been bred into a pureblood family; one parent had been in Slytherin house.

The general discrimination against Muggle-Borns of course was no less relenting when she was at Hogwarts during the eighties. She received the usual name-calling and bullying from the snobby Elitist and Purist quarter of the school. However, Elsa didn't go totally unnoticed; a pureblood in Hufflepuff was a little, if somewhat unusual.

Mainly, it was the same, usual bunch of bullying Slytherins who cursed her as a blood traitor. Elsa, being who she was, never gave them the satisfaction, and often sardonically threw cutting remarks back, which had them stupefied for a while. Until they came up with the next insult.

Stella, however had never been happy in school. She failed miserably in her first set of important exams. The teachers, the kind ones at least, told her she was a good witch. She just didn't put any effort in. The dry, less kind ones, such as Professor Severus Snape of Potions, told her otherwise.

School had never been the happiest for her. She'd often felt lonely as a child, especially since her parents offered no time for her, and when home during the summer holidays she felt nastily isolated. She resided in a Muggle neighbourhood when away from Hogwarts, and apart from her mother telling her the odd story about some old primary school friend; she heard nothing about the other world. The other world which made her feel less isolated – but no more the happier.

The fact that she couldn't contact Elsa by telephone made things difficult, and although she sent letters by owl (An owl she hired, she had a little toad) Elsa didn't reply nearly often enough, and some of them were very distracted. Elsa had always been an extroverted sort of person, making friends with the world and his wife. She was always out doing things – always with friends, and hugely independent. She disliked her parents, for some unknown reason. Stella thought sometimes she was a little spoilt, with no idea about the value of money.

Elsa tended to be a bit ignorant, as most of the wizarding world, about certain things, certainly Muggle things. However she tended to criticise what she saw, for example, the one summer she came back with Stella. Stella had never quite felt such deep frustration. She had to explain the television over a hundred times, including sockets, the microwave, the dishwasher, the washing machine, and Merlin or God knows what else.

She often made a mistake with that one. Merlin of God often became mixed up when she was in Hogwarts. Despite her indifference and intolerance at times, Elsa had been a very good friend, a friend that had stood by her when the rest hadn't. Stella had a lot to thank her for.

But that didn't stop her eventually dropping out. She heard people talk about her behind her back, when she ventured back into the wizarding world shortly after staying home after dropping out. Because her mother didn't fully understand about this world, she didn't fully understand the consequences of dropping out of the school. She was disappointed, but not greatly so. She smiled, and said, give something else a try. Why not go back to college, sit your A-levels and go to university? It'll be more worthwhile than that magic stuff. Encouraging words of her mother, but it didn't suit her.

She loved this world, this secret little labyrinth of fantasy. She couldn't do anything else; she couldn't possibly end up working in an office, lest she say, with Muggles. She didn't want to do that. The Slytherins, amongst all, were the nastiest when she was on the verge of dropping out. Some kind soul had managed to break gossip out that she was going to quit. The whole school hadn't really been sympathetic, apart from her group of friends. When she left however, they barely kept in contact with her. She was talked about everywhere. Some say it gave muggle-borns a bad name.

She dropped out in 1990, at the start of year six. The teachers were disappointed of course, but her mind was set. People whispered that her wand ought to be destroyed, and remain either as a squib or Muggle. Her mother demanded that she would drive up there to take her home. She told her that it would be impossible for her to find Hogwarts, it was enchanted, and hidden, so Dumbledore, her quirky, kind headmaster, apparated with her to the nearest Scottish city.

He waited with her for her mother. They chatted amiably; he popped into the nearest corner shop to buy a packet full of sweets, receiving most unusual stares from other people. When her mother showed up in a battered BMW, he turned to her, suddenly melancholic.

"I'm sorry you didn't want to stay, Stella. But you will always be welcome at Hogwarts."

She wondered if he'd known any other difficult student who hadn't coped dropped out. She felt like the first. He held her gaze firmly when he uttered the last sentence. Work there, perhaps, his voice echoed in her mind. She flinched a little, and her mother stumbled out of the car, waving.

"Oh, you must be Mr Dumbledore…"

Her Headmaster soon disappeared, and they began the long, silent drive home, with the radio playing softly. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, and she began to sob. Her mother ignored it, and passed her a tissue.

When she was unable to stop, she said,

"It was your choice, Stella. Don't you dare cry about it now."

She became infamous – Stella Shelley, the Muggle-born who dropped out. She'd never give up her wand, never, not even the magic. How could she give something like that up? It was her most valued, precious possession, and Mr Ollivander, the wandmaker, had particularly warmed to her.

Vine wood, with unicorn hair and eleven and a half inches. It would not go to waste, she reminded herself. You couldn't give up your magic, once you had it, you had it.

So she went back home, got a job at Marions, a fish and chip shop, and did nothing for a couple of years. She began to drink, and then she moved out of her mother's house when Elsa had finished her last year at Hogwarts. She rented a small flat in the wizarding community of Zedlock, located in London, not far from Diagon Alley, a tiny, cold place with creaky floorboards and rattling doorframes. While everyone had been at Hogwarts, she had saved her money up.

She bought some new things for her flat. She bought a ukulele and started to practise. But she was terribly lonely.

Elsa and some others came to see her over the holidays, or more likely, she went to see them in Zedlock. Elsa had prosperous parents who owned a small place there. Her real home, an ancient family manor, was somewhere up in Lincolnshire, near where she used to live as a child. The group from Hogwarts always went to Zedlock, especially to Rotten Apple, a rather hip place for youngsters to drink and have fun, even if they were underage.

The alcohol underage policy was the same for wizards as it was for Muggles. But someone always knew someone who was eighteen or over. A lot of her group from Hogwarts had early birthdays, and she had to wait around, being bought drinks. She felt sorry for poor spotty Adam Benjamin, whose birthday was in August.

Before she had moved out of her mother's house, often she'd wake up on the floor of either her bedroom or the bathroom, hung over and sick to her stomach. She'd run a bath, and soak until she was ready to be bothered to take on the world. Sometimes she'd take some food, her walkman, her books and sit there until her shift was due for Marions. Sometimes she had to look after her younger brother, Alex, before Dane was born, when her mother went off with her friends. She wasn't sure, now Alex was ten, getting on for eleven, if he would go to Hogwarts.

She wasn't sure where her mother stood on that one. Stella felt she wasn't exactly a shining example to her brothers.

Now twenty two years of age, with a terrible drinking problem, at least three people she could rely on, Stella Shelley felt like she was going to live her life without actually living it. She would pass through like a ghost, barely with any substance, barely any goal, and nothing to look forward to.

Whenever these dreary thoughts, or memories of her failure of a past, she took to the bottle, to drown it out. It wasn't as if it had been a terrible past, not with tragedies and situations where she had been thrown out with no family, friends money or home. No, she just failed, it was all her fault. Despite this, despite everything, she had managed, two years after she had dropped out of Hogwarts, to begin a course in healing – although not as a proper Healer. The course had to be paid for, and she had to work terrible shifts at Marions and another job, which was cleaning.

It took place in St. Mungos, the wizarding hospital in London. Although unpleasant compared to a Muggle hospital, she completed the course with high achievement. Beginning her work at the start of the term in 1996, she became a healing assistant to Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Some of the teachers acknowledged her with a smile – others did not, still holding their scorn.

It was summer, 1997, now.

The three people Stella at least could rely on, was her best friend, Elsa Neave, her mother (at odd moments) and her current boyfriend, Geoff Moorcraft. Their little group was quite a mix. With their old Hogwarts friends, Adam, Cornelius and Patty, it had grown due to Elsa meeting people from her business, and getting out and about.

Stella didn't know how she did it. Stella had never been with anyone before Geoff. Technically, anyway, she had a few drunk kisses and a couple of unusual dates, and once some boy from Slytherin had confessed to fancying her, although he threatened anyone who would spill this secret. Naturally, the entire year found out, and he was bullied into submission. Although Stella was uninterested, Elsa always liked to ask people about their blood status.

Apparently Elsa had known Geoff before, and they were introduced a few months before they got together. At the time, Stella was very uninterested in boys, having failed at finding anyone attractive and worthwhile. She noticed him looking at her quite a lot, but she thought she was kidding herself that anyone could really be interested.

One night, at Rotten Apple, she stole outside for a taboo cigarette; he and Patty with Cornelius joined them. They talked all night, and she went back to his. She lost her virginity and innocence all in one night, and found he'd asked her out, and they began dating. It happened out of the blue, which was nice for her, since before she hadn't been looking for anything. That had been in January.

Now it was August.

Geoff was a first class Healer – their mutual interest in this area was the first thing that had brought them together.


	3. The Rotten Apple

**THE ROTTEN APPLE **

Elsa finished tidying her lovely coiled hair, with her wand, using it like it was curlers, and slipped her wand inside her cloak. Stella watched her, while sitting on her large double bed, adorned with blankets and pillows that were terribly mismatched in pattern and colour.

They were about to head, as usual, to the Rotten Apple, for it was a Saturday night, the best night you could get in the place. They were meeting the usual group, along with Geoff, who finished at work soon, and would arrive later. Stella knew he was always busy with work. She often wondered if he put that always first. It seemed, sometimes he did. Looking back, if she could ever do such a thing, she had made him her priority, while perhaps he made her an option, thinking of the Mark Twain quote. It seemed he was forever busy these days. Still, she looked ahead.

Elsa frowned, took her wand back out, gave it a sharp flick, and her dress underneath changed from an innocent blue to a scarlet red. Stella raised an eyebrow.

"That was a big change."

Elsa studied her new appearance in her long mirror. She had photographs of all her friends edged around this Mirror-of-Erised-lookalike. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, her own reflection changed and walked out of its own accord. It eventually did this time. Elsa sighed.

"It always does this when I most need it."

"Perhaps you need a new one."

Stella had sobered up while she had stayed at Elsa's and had dinner. Elsa demanded they have a small dinner, so she could get horribly drunk. She didn't really give a thought about Stella's situation. She was being strangely indifferent today. Indifferent to her, indifferent to the chaos that was happening between the worlds. In their world. It was changing horribly.

Stella only went for a simple flowery dress, and she wore her denim jacket. She flung it on, and Elsa wrinkled her nose briefly before they set outside. The air was light with drizzle, it was terribly miserable. Stella, always having loved rain, ignored Elsa's gripes all the way to Rotten Apple, where a few people were outside in the drizzle, with drinks floating in the air, while they chatted. Their drinks were Bourbon Sours, a spirit drink infused with a sharp, nearly sweet taste of apple, usually drunk with herbal water, making the entire drink a sickly green looking colour.

Stella preferred Muggle spirits, and always brought her gin with her, but she managed to drink the rest of it at Elsa's with orange juice. Strangely, orange juice always tasted different when bought from the grocery store in the area of Spearrot, another wizarding community in London. Predominantly it was a commercial and business area, with a few knick knack shops that often sold dodgy Borgin & Burkes-esque artefacts.

She'd have to do with some dubious magical drink, sometimes which had a far higher volume of alcohol than Muggle drinks. Much to her downfall really. She was hit by the same smell as she walked into the wooden, dark place that was aligned with knitted patterns strewn across the walls, and posters of celebrity-like wizards and witches of the day.

It was like a hippy hideout for the magical really. Woodsmoke, the smell of magical alcohol – predominantly a sharp herbal smell – and rotten wood was what plagued the club. Pub, place, she didn't know what to call it. Should've named it Rotten Wood, she thought, as she followed Elsa into the back room, where they greeted Septimus, the rather cranky barman, who appeared to have enchanted the glasses to clean themselves while he did the heavy manual work of heaving large crates of alcohol, some kind of ale, behind the bar to stock up.

"I honestly don't know why you put your back out doing that, Mussy," Elsa commented, delving into her little pocket purse and pulling out some coins and slamming it on the bar.

Septimus grunted.

Stella knew he wasn't particularly gifted with magic, and probably didn't know how to work two spells at once. Not that she did either, it was probably taught after she'd left. She remembered she'd left her wand in Elsa's room, collecting dust. She sighed inwardly. She had to be the worst witch in the world.

Elsa ordered an extravagant drink as usual topped with a cherry. The drink was blood red, and little tiny things swam around in it. Stella didn't fancy the same. She asked for a firewhiskey instead, and Elsa gave her a warm smile, before trailing over to their usual spot. Adam and Patty were sitting there.

Patty had fashioned herself an extravagant hat made of colourful feathers. A little distasteful, thought Stella, as she planted herself into a seat. Adam spottier than ever, tried his best today, with a smart shirt and slim trousers, but he looked miserably into his ale.

"Well, how are we all?" chimed Elsa happily.

Patty's brow crossed.

"It's remarkable how you keep such a wonderful tune going all the time, Neave," she spoke, perhaps a little too brash.

Elsa pretended not to be narked by the comment, but as she was about to speak, spotty Adam interrupted.

"Haven't you heard – the Muggle road, what the Death Eaters did-"

"Of course I know, I was there! So was Stella, I practically had to rescue her, _as usual-"_

"Yes, but you didn't seem to be very affected by it," Stella cut in, rather sagely, but Elsa rolled her eyes, looking down at her drink.

"Well, I could say the same for you, little Miss Drunkyard."

Adam and Patty passed Stella a look of knowing.

They all knew she was an alcoholic, but they spoke nothing. The place felt suddenly a little claustrophobic to Stella and she got up abruptly, feeling a little unnerved by Elsa's comment. She felt all their accusing eyes on her back, after she announced she was going to the toilet. In reality, she was going to go for a smoke out the front, seeing that the bathroom had less than pleasant memories. Besides, the toilet itself often liked to annoy people either by tightly closing its lid so she couldn't pee, or throw her off halfway through her business.

She knew no one would approve of her taking out the packet of Golden Virginia and trying to roll a cigarette. Something she happened to be good at, for once, even if it wasn't a particular magical skill. The weather became worse, and the rain tipped hard down. Further down the street, there she saw her boyfriend, with his big farmer's jacket on and holding a large black umbrella. She could see he was wearing the shiny shoes he often wore to work, and guessed he was late back, and didn't have time to change properly. Hence the old farmer's jacket, but he wore that everywhere anyway.

He saw her, half smiled. Good effort, she thought, and took a long drag. He greeted a couple of hooded dark figures, and stopped, breathing. The rain dripped off his umbrella and put her cigarette out.

"Well done," she said, somewhat annoyed.

"That's the first thing you say to me?" he teased. She smiled, and he rubbed her arm.

"Let's go." He shook his umbrella out, and she waited for him.

She knew he'd want her not to, but she wanted to. He greeted Septimus who nodded and smiled toothily. Septimus only liked Geoff Moorcraft out of all the youngsters. He tended to like level-headed people like Geoff, unlike boisterous Elsa, simpering Adam, gossipy Patty or smoke-chimney Stella. Geoff greeted the gang with a wide smile, and Elsa stood up to hug him, perhaps a little too tight. Stella trundled in after them, feeling disgruntled. They launched into a conversation, which was about her boyfriend's work. A first-class Healer job; that was all they ever talked about sometimes.

She always thought do what you love and the money will follow, but she felt he was all about find the best job to earn you the best money and status. Perhaps that was her interpretation. Perhaps she was jealous – after all, he had many achievements. He was quite the overachiever, quite the privileged little boy with wealthy parents. Always with money, always able to do things, have experiences. That was how he had so much in common with the others.

Adam's family were Healers. Patty's father's side were all in the Ministry of Magic, doing important things. Elsa's, as far as Stella was aware, had a huge business in selling potions for home-care healing. He was the jokey kind, her boyfriend of several months, the kind that was friends with everyone. He usually didn't pay her much attention when they were out, much to her chagrin at times. Eventually, she convinced herself that he couldn't just focus on her – perhaps he cared too much about public affection, that Adam, Patty or Elsa might feel uncomfortable. But what could he not do, talk to her? Look at her? What was so important about their friend's opinions? Were people not allowed to show affection for their couples?

She sat there, after ordering a simple juicy drink, blood red, and spicy. She knew she shouldn't be mixing drinks, especially after having gin, then firewhiskey. She had a gut feeling she might be needing it. Elsa and Patty eyed her, the boys soon changed to Quidditch, about the latest global matches that were going on.

"I told her she shouldn't be mixing, but she doesn't listen," commented Elsa to Patty, who gave Stella an unusual stare, and nodded.

Stella felt uncannily unnerved this evening by everyone and everything. Not only had she sat drunk in her car watching Death Eaters destroy Muggle roads, but she was sitting amongst her boyfriend and friends feeling unattached and disconnected with them.

Simultaneously, irritated with them.

"Who's she, the cat's mother?" she quipped, her annoyance coming out in her voice.

Geoff heard, and turned to her, his once smiley face turned down a notch. He studied her a little, his eyes darting between both of her eyes. He was doing it so hastily. Did he look guilty about something?

His dark blue eyes were swirling pools of secrecy.

"I can't take you having another drunken night, Stella," he said sternly.

Stella was becoming more and more irritable.

"Perhaps if we didn't spend time after time drinking at this place, I wouldn't," she snapped.

He raised his eyebrows a little, but rubbed her arm, as if for support. He was rubbing her arm, why? Patty chirped up.

"Well don't come here," she spoke simply, shrugging, picking up her drink and sipping it through the straw.

Elsa said nothing, a rather indifferent expression on her face. Stella picked up her bag, and got out her supplies for rolling another cigarette. Elsa this time rolled her eyes.

"I really don't understand this Muggle dried leaf smoking habit. It's positively vile."

"For once, Elsa, I could really do without your bloody opinion." Elsa stared at her rather shrewdly, but Patty beat her to a reply. Patty always had a certain dislike for Stella, one way or another.

"Just go home, Stella, save us all the embarrassment and effort of you becoming drunk, yet again."

Stella stood there, and the boys had finally quietened. She wasn't sure if Geoff had heard, but he looked up at her with a puzzled expression. The bar became eerily quiet, and all eyes were on her. She stood dumbstruck, and felt that the people she had become connected with attached to, were suddenly strangers.

"Gosh whatever is eating you Patty, it must be suffering horribly," she said, and turned on her heel, leaving all them bemused.

The rain had lessened a little, but it was still pouring down in drips and drabs. She smoked her cigarette, hoping, and hoping that someone would come out, and ask what was wrong. She hoped, of all, Geoff would, but he never came. She pushed open the door, and heard the idle chatter and raucous laughter that filled the pub heartily, but she did not see anyone that was her friends or boyfriend. A brief, sorrowful well of pity and despair swelled in her throat, but she bit back her tears, and turned away back into the rain. She sauntered slowly, to the end of the road, where her flat was; a small modern-like block of wizarding flats.

She was soaked, tired and drunk. There were only four levels in this block, which had a Tudor like décor on the outside. There were six apartments on each level on the floor, all reasonable sizes. Housekeeping often came along; it was laid out much like a hotel. Inside it stank of herbal cleaning products and potions mixed with rotting wood that held the beams together. Odd – considering this was a fairly new building for Zedlock, but perhaps that was the intended, charmed effect. Anything too modern and it would be Muggle. She let herself in, after greeting her elderly neighbour Zacharias Winter.

Her toad was on top of the counter, croaking away, giving her the beady eye. Her linen curtain hung lopsided covering the large windows that let the night in, casting a faint sheen on the wooden floor. She saw her answering machine bleeping. Because there were no sockets – she had enchanted it to work without electricity, with the help of Geoff. He also helped with the telephone. His father was a Muggle, and he was not completely oblivious. She liked him for that. She opened the pantry – for there were no such things as refrigerators, and saw no alcohol.

All out. Or perhaps Elsa snuck in and took it all away. All the food that needed to be cool was kept in the cupboards above her counters and stove, charmed with a cooling spell. She often longed for a television.

On her visit weekends to either her Nana or her mother, she'd revel in the television. She couldn't help but feel she was a disgrace to the wizarding population. Maybe she needed to give it all up, and become Muggle again, put her failed magical past behind her. People sometimes recognised her on the street, and hissed or whispered to a neighbour. Such stares she received. But she had left so long ago, back in 1990! She was a qualified nurse now, if you could call it that. The term nurse wasn't used in wizarding vocabulary – she was just known as a Healing Assistant, but it was a nurse.

She glanced at her father's old record player, and flicked her wand gently. The stylus moved jerkily to the record, and Skip James's _Devil Got My Woman _began playing. It was an ideal time for her to crack out another drink, but she didn't. She couldn't possibly pay another visit to the shop, she couldn't pay any more.

She headed towards her bomb wreckage of a room, and found her kimono-like dressing gown, which had holes in its arms and faded lilies on the outside. Instead, she poured herself some cranberry juice that reminded her of her Nana, and sat down beside the glass door that lead out to her shabby balcony, which was littered with bin bags and cigarette butts. Bin bags that she should've given to the Magic Council of Zedlock weeks ago.

Usually they hired special services to come and collect all the rubbish. It was collected in wooden trolleys pulled by a creature that seemed to be a cross between a cow and a large shaggy dog, a large wheezing animal that appeared sorry for itself. All the magic folk were supposed to disappear out of their homes to give their bags away. Stella hadn't done so for a while. Surely they'd send some sort of Howler soon enough, she had one before and she'll have one again. Next time she wouldn't ignore it.

While listening to the plucky guitar and the sorrowful man's voice, she couldn't help but ponder on her unreliable, somewhat indifferent friends. Or were they? Was that how she interpreting them? Unfair, or not?

She fell asleep, and the record player just replaying itself over and over again, since it had been enchanted to. Her head was back, her mouth was wide open, her dressing gown open, the moonlight outside catching on her white legs. Her wand was slipping slowly out of her hand. She jerked awake when she heard herself snore, a common habit, and heard the sounds of voices. A shriek of laughter. It was familiar. She frowned, rubbing her eyes. She folded the gown back over her legs, and flicked her wand at the record to stop playing.

Skip James hadn't even finished.

She wandered into the moonlight, leaning over a stack of books, beyond her balcony to outside. She saw Elsa's curly hair falling out of its once elegant bun, and she heard another voice. Something about the situation left Stella uneasy. She wasn't with Adam or Patty. Where was Geoff? She glanced at the time; it was just after one in the morning.

Christ, she thought.

Geoff hadn't bothered to stop by, unless she was asleep when he did. She ambled over to her messy coffee table beside her futon-like sofa bed and rustled things around until she found her mobile phone under an ancient book on Thestrals. She thought of Geoff, and there was a sudden terrible ache in her chest, as if her heart coughed, as if it had been pricked with a very light needle. He never bothered, she thought bitterly. Some sense told her to get a coat and shoes on, and walk to Elsa's. She did so.

She shut the door firmly behind her, keys in hand, and wand in pocket and wandered down the flight of stairs, out into the cold.

At the same time, she didn't know what she was doing. Did she suspect something? Perhaps her lowered mood needed to be reassured by tough old Elsa. She wanted to apologise for her behaviour in the pub, grovel at everyone's feet.

But weren't they just a wee bit concerned? She walked briskly, and her stomach felt like it was plummeting.


	4. Unsavoury News

**Author's Note: **This is the chapter that gets everything started! The following chapter will most likely contain Hogwarts and all that jazz!

**UNSAVOURY NEWS **

She gazed up at the little amber coloured lights shining from Elsa's bedroom.

Light flecks of rain came down, and soaked her face gently, the cold stinging her senses. She wasn't sure why she was walking towards Elsa's. To her, she had an odd, sinking feeling, yet a yearning feeling to prove that she wasn't just a stupid, worthless alcoholic, that she was a good witch.

She was hurt that Geoff didn't come to see her. She was hurt he didn't contemplate that perhaps, a particle of her was screaming for help, that she tottered home drunk, again. What had stopped him? Had he cared too much what the others, Patty and Adam thought? She knew he liked his friends, his status, his relaxed, unemotional composure. She let herself into the block of large flats – larger than hers.

They were more like apartment complexes, although still carrying the old-fashioned Tudor look, desperate not to appear like Modern Muggle buildings. The front entrance was always open, and the foyer which always had a sleeping security wizard installed at a rustic-looking desk was absent this time.

She was momentarily glad, for she was not in the mood to be engaging in conversations about the different dangerous dragons of the world. The triple D as Elsa named it. She moved up the staircases, which moved according to which floor you wanted to be on, Elsa's happened to be at the very top.

She announced floor seven, and the gut-churning staircase swung back and forth between all the floors until it reached the very top. She felt her stomach would plop. She entered the long corridor, never-ending it seemed, full of doors to different flats. The runway carpet moved when you wanted it to, she was in a particular rush, and announced Elsa's flat number. Flat 23. Zoom, and the carpet spat her off the runway onto the wooden floorboards.

The door was opened, and inside was dark. She entered eyes wide.

Stella crept slowly into Elsa's place, the entire room, which was the large living room and adjoined kitchen, shrouded in complete and utter darkness. She heard shuffling, and then – a sudden moaning.

She had been tempted to announce her friend's name, but the forming lump in her throat forced the words clear from her tongue. Elsa's door was to her right. She walked over to the coffee table in front of the ancient sofa, and switched on the light. The muffling stopped, and Stella turned around, with her arms folded. There was silence. Annoyance increasing, she helped herself to some pumpkin juice from the jug stored in the cool section of Elsa's cupboards.

She had a feeling Elsa had brought back some delinquent boy. Which felt unlikely, but not unfamiliar. Stella turned around when she heard Elsa's door creak, and met the eyes of her best friend.

Elsa, for once, was dishevelled.

Her curly hair was now draped around her shoulders, her lipstick was smudged – everywhere – and she clutched her fluffy dressing gown around her shoulders.

"You're flashing part-boob," Stella commented, amusingly, all previous apprehension gone.

Elsa did not stir.

"How on earth did you get here?" Elsa whispered.

Stella now frowned, there was something terribly off. Elsa was never like this.

"I apparated," she joked again, but Elsa just kept staring at her with those wide eyes.

"The door was bloody well open – I just wanted some company. I didn't mean to act like I did in the pub. Just, you know. But someone could've wondered about me." Elsa smirked.

"Always thinking of number one, aren't we?" Stella felt perplexed by this odd behaviour, and she hastily put down her cup of juice.

She crossed her arms, mirroring her friend.

"I'm guessing this is a bad time, for once. Who's the guy?" She was trying her best to be jovial, which Elsa always liked and responded well to, but she kept standing there in that ridiculous fluffy gown, staring and staring.

Stella felt her guts churn a little harder than she would have liked, and a large ache formed in her chest. That emotional kind of ache, as if your heart was aching itself.

"Are you hiding something?" she demanded.

Elsa put her hands up.

"Just _go_, Stella, I'll call on you tomorrow. No one is here, I'm just in a bit of a tiff right now-"

"You're never in a tiff!"

Stella was closer to her friend now, trying to peek beyond the bedroom door and finding nothing. Elsa put her hands on Elsa's arms, trying to push her away.

"Please, Stella, I'm in no mood! You're being unbelievably selfish!"

Stella pushed past her friend, was about to touch the door, when she was blasted back.

Her body was thrown across the room, and she landed beside the table, hitting her head hard on the counter behind her.

Elsa had her dark wand in hand, and didn't seem to immediately believe what she had done. Oh sweet Merlin, she kept chanting. Meanwhile, Stella felt dazed, but not unresponsive. She tried to lift herself, her own wand hanging limply in her hand, and the kitchen swam and danced in front of her. She pulled herself up slowly, and felt the back of her head instinctively, no blood, but probably a lump was to follow.

She couldn't find any words to say, and sat there, feeling like she was intoxicated again.

And there – coming out from the depths of Elsa's dark bedroom, was her boyfriend, Geoff Moorcraft, his face shrouded in white, his mouth slightly open.

He met eyes with his girlfriend, and stood there, absolutely stunned. Stella felt emotions rush forward like a tidal wave. She threw herself forwards, and Elsa rushed towards her, trying to steady her, but Stella shrugged her off aggressively.

She couldn't quite fathom the words to say – what was there to say? How dare you? Was that right?

Her head was thumping now. Geoff was stood there in dark boxers and a ripped t-shirt. He put a hand on her arm, but she just kept staring at him. The ache in her chest suddenly became rather unbearable. She wasn't sure how to react – what to say or do, for there were a million words in her head, and they were all becoming clogged up in her throat.

"Sorry, was I interrupting something?" she choked out, trying so desperately to hold back her tears.

Elsa appeared as if she suddenly was going to burst into tears also. What nerve!

Geoff moved back a few steps, and didn't make the attempt to explain himself.

"So that's it, then?" she shouted abruptly, making them jump.

The tears fell down her face full force. The guilt on Geoff's face was indescribable, but she wasn't sure of Elsa's.

"I've been meaning to tell you for some time," began Geoff. Stella felt her mouth hang open in shock. Her limbs felt unmovable in, all of a sudden. She wondered how long this had been going on, or whether it was just a one night stand.

Elsa was tapping her foot.

"Merlin, put on some trousers, have dignity," she snapped.

Stella still had tears running slowly down her face, but not a single sob had come out.

"You're a fine kettle of fish! To talk about dignity in front of me," she barked.

Elsa appeared momentarily shocked out of skin. Stella wasn't usually, in fact, one to snap, or argue or talk back. She kept herself to herself, and got drunk. Elsa's arms flopped to her sides, limply.

Geoff came back, shrugging on plain slacks, huffing and puffing. Geoff glanced towards Elsa warningly, after putting his trousers on, and Elsa stormed towards her bedroom, slamming the door incredibly hard. Geoff motioned to the sofa, draped in patterned blankets. Stella wanted to fight back, yell at him, that she utterly refused to sit down and listen to any excuse or sob story. However, she followed him obligingly, why she didn't know, but she wanted the truth.

"Stella, this just isn't working," he began.

She stared at him, incredulously.

"Why on great God's earth are you fucking my best friend?" He shook his head, exasperated.

"You don't need to include such language."

"I'm not a bloody child, Moorcraft." She only ever used surnames when temperature was boiling, beyond boiling. She felt the blood plainly boiling under her face.

She stared at him. His wavy hair, his deep pools of ocean, his flat nose and that mouth that was so often kissed – what on earth? What on great Merlin's broomstick was going on? He sighed, as if she was being difficult.

"I just can't do the whole relationship thing anymore. I'm up to my neck in work. I don't feel it's working out."

He was a couple years older than her, in the Healing business. Sure, difficult, but difficult enough? Surely not. Was this happening? Was this actually taking place? She had caught them, red handed, and he was sitting down to have a pep talk with her?

"I thought it was – that was what my impression was."

"Yes and I thought so too-"

"But you just want the sex, is that it? I've not been good enough, Elsa's a better fetch. You must think I'm thick!"

"No, stop it, Stella! I just – I can't deal with the whole thing anymore. It's getting too much. I don't know how to explain it. I didn't, I didn't….look it was not you, as such. I couldn't take your drunkenness. But – Elsa and I, just were drunk and, well, you…went home, and I just. I need to be alone. I didn't mean to. I just…."

They were silent for a short while, and she heard Elsa clattering about inside her room.

There was a sob trying to come out of throat but she wasn't allowing it, to feel herself feel vulnerable, in front of this man who she thought she had perhaps loved, and trusted mostly, and thought of as a decent friend and someone to have fun with. She stood up, breathing hard.

"I understand. I meant nothing to you. You're not drunk, Elsa was."

"You know that's not true."

Was that for both parts of the sentence, or one part? She turned back round to him, who was still sitting on the sofa, as calmly as ever.

"You have a nerve alright, to sit there, in all your filthy glory, to belittle me, and make me feel small by saying that somehow your little festering mind cannot 'cope' with a relationship? You have deceived me. You've done your worst. You've done the worst possible thing you can do, and yet here you are trying to explain yourself!"

He stood up, but there was no anger in him. It was like he had temporarily morphed into a robot, casting his emotions aside. Was Elsa waiting in the room, still raw and wet, hoping to get another good romp before waking up the next morning with a thumping headache and a room which reeked of guilt?

"I'm doing the best that a guilty man caught red handed can do."

"There it is again, the emotional blackmail. Well, your timing stinks. There is nothing 'best' a guilty man could say or act on. Next time, try saying sorry."

Before he could get another word in, she had turned around, and began to sob, angry with herself. She burst into Elsa's room, seeing her so called best friend trying to clear the room, and glanced up quickly with a startled expression on her face. She murmured her name, and started to move forward, eyes brimming with tears.

"I thought you knew better."

She had nothing more to say, all the other things she wanted to say caught up in her throat, and she wished she could stay. She wished she could throw herself in Geoff's arms and moan for him. Moan for him to come back, and not leave the heart he had just taken, and shredded.

Like he had plunged a fist into her chest and ripped out the heart, stamping on it as hard as he possibly could. She wanted to just rewind, for everything to be back to normal again. Childish, were her thoughts. Did she want to go back to the old days? Why did she drink? Did she want to go back to being in that tight knit group, where she was ignored, and felt smaller than any of them?

Where Geoff selfishly went about his ways, or saw her only on his terms. When he wanted, when it was good enough for him. The thing was, she would now be cast out of the group. They wouldn't need her anymore. Elsa and Geoff were old friends, and the others were friends with Elsa from Hogwarts.

These thoughts haunted her as she walked back, and she felt utterly wretched. She momentarily thought of ending it all, but the thought was gone. How stupid, to end your life over some stupid, ignorant people? Let them fester; they are too stupid for their own good.

But it didn't help her heart. She was distraught.

Stella let herself into her flat, stripped herself of her clothes.

She desperately wanted to phone her mother, or find her Nana, who was currently in a London hospital, and cry her eyes out and let go of her hurt. But it was around two in the morning, and it was a ridiculous time. Her mother would understand, but she would be fast asleep with the phone unplugged. She didn't bother changing into her night clothes and flung herself into bed, naked. The room was nastily cold. Her mind was still churning.

She tossed and turned.

After an hour, she knocked on her other neighbour's door, clad in her kimono dressing gown. Her other neighbour was Margaret Ashaolt, a rather eccentric witch in her mid forties who worked for a cauldron company. She knew Madge would be awake, and probably drunk, and so she was.

Madge saw immediately what the matter was, and gave her a bottle of gin.

"You feel like talking dear?"

Later, Stella muttered, and wandered back to her flat. She sat at the kitchen table, and drunk herself to sleep, incredibly thinking of nothing.


	5. Hogwarts Bound

**Authors Note: **Well, another chapter for you to read. For those who are wondering when Riddle is going to appear, how, when, what, etc, well, he shall enter the next chapter. Be patient, my dears, you shall not be disappointed. (Hopefully not anyway). Thanks to **PillageAndPain **for my first review :3

**HOGWARTS BOUND**

Stella, like every other wizard and witch, was witness to a dark wizard's takeover of the Ministry of Magic, a wizard who named himself Lord Voldemort. Many knew him simply as 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' merely because the name itself was too abhorrent to speak. People increased their fear, they became paranoid.

The previous Hogwarts Headmaster, whom was generously kind, and Stella had rather a soft spot for, had been murdered by none other, she had heard, her old Potions Professsor, Severus Snape. Now he was Headmaster of the school. A couple of Death Eaters, siblings, named Alecto and Amycus Carrow, were teachers of Defence Against The Dark Arts, and Muggle Studies. Brainwashing and plaguing children's minds, teaching them to think like a prejudiced killer.

To hate people like her.

Stella's rather miserable weekend had taken her mind off what was happening at Hogwarts, and now since it was September 1st, the first day of term, she had to prepare herself for work. Another term.

She had heard the bad news, and attended Dumbledore's funeral several months back. She saw the spread of Death Eaters, their poisonous words, their terrible propaganda. For the first time, as she drove her car up to Scotland, she felt rather anxious and unsafe.

She began to realise now that it wasn't very practical to drive in a car, a Muggle way of transport, to Hogwarts, and realised this, the day before, the Sunday, when she was nearing Birmingham. The Sunday, although excited to be starting work again, was rather drab.

In fact, she could hardly take notice at all of what was going on around her. She had to stop at several motorway stops in order to just sit there and cry until she was blind with tears. Then she'd walk into a little café with travellers, sipping their morning coffees, the smell of bacon wafting in the air. She sat down, sniffling, and the waitress looked at her with sympathy. That was rather lovely. Not many Brits greeted emotion very well.

"Big mug of coffee?" she smiled.

It began to rain outside, hard. Stella felt lightened. Rain was so refreshing, so familiar, so beautiful.

"Whisky," joked Stella.

The waitress laughed. She came back with the biggest mug of coffee and charged her less. She handed her a packet of tissues and glanced at her like glancing at her own child. She was in her fifties.

"Family?" she asked, testing the waters.

Stella swallowed the coffee, and breathed out slowly, closing her puffy eyes.

"Boyfriend." The woman sighed, as if sighing out a whole history of her own.

The look in her eyes was evident; she'd suffered pain too, deep emotional pain.

"Always is. He leave you out here?"

"No. He might've driven me out here though." The waitress laughed, showing a full set of whitened teeth.

"I work at a boarding school in Scotland. First day of term tomorrow."

"I hate boarding schools. No offence, dear."

"I hate them too, dropped out of the same one I work at." The waitress frowned a little, troubled.

"Why do you work there?" Stella was caught off guard.

Why did she, indeed, work at Hogwarts? It was even too dangerous now. She couldn't, not with a murderer as headmaster and two violent siblings as teachers. Was she crazy?

The waitress turned to go, rubbing Stella's shoulder.

"I don't really know. I work as the nurse. Perhaps I need to prove myself."

"Honey, you have nothing to be ashamed of." The waitress went, and Stella began to cry again, into her mug of coffee, but drank it all the same.

To be true, she had a large weight lifted off her shoulders. Being Geoff's girlfriend was constant hard work. As much as she liked him, she had to make the effort several times in a row. He had a tendency to be a little flaky. She couldn't always blame him – he had a first class job as a Healer. In the beginning he had made time for her, but he had just drifted away and ignored her eventually after a while.

That was it, Stella thought. He had distanced himself a lot for the last month and a half. He had known Elsa before; they had met at another pub somewhere in Zedlock.

Some pub that was for decent witches and wizards who had interesting personalities, backgrounds and interests. She shook her head, not wanting to imagine. But the scene of last night was imprinted on her mind, and it wouldn't detach. She kept replaying all the memories of him in her head, how intimate they had seemed at first, now all shattered. Neither of them had made to contact her.

Elsa, of all people, should have. She had nothing to say to Geoff, not really. She could list out a load of remarks and names, but nothing else. She was utterly shocked.

Then again, when she thought about it, perhaps it wasn't so unusual, or shocking.

She waved goodbye to the waitress, and got back into the Golf. She wiped her eyes, pressed a canister of cold water to her aching eyes, and began to drive again. She should've caught the Hogwarts Express instead, but it was too late now. She didn't want to leave it somewhere, and continue via another way of transport.

She couldn't apparate, she didn't know where the Floo Networks were anywhere else in the country, especially near Birmingham, and she wasn't very keen on broomsticks. Much more comfortable in the car. So she kept on, worrying, and grieving, crying on and off, humming to a tune on the radio, drinking a little bit of mixed gin and orange, and cursing slow drivers who braked constantly.

She had at least six stops.

This is ridiculous, she had thought, but sobs kept welling up in her, and she had to stop, to at least drink coffee or tea, or on occasion hot chocolate. She felt tipsy and fell sleep at a table beside a fast food takeaway. People wandered around, lorry drivers and tourists, travellers and business men, taking a glance at the young woman who had red eyes and greasy ashen blonde hair tied up in a long ponytail. Poor girl, she appeared exhausted.

Had she been driving all night? With those red eyes?

Stella bought numerous amounts of trashy magazines; she bought bottles of coke, and tried to avoid buying more alcohol. She had to buy, actually, a little more, for at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade there was no gin, nothing like that. Whiskey, yes, and all that other stuff….Nothing like gin.

By the time she had reached Windermere, a sweet little village near the Lake District in Cumbria, it was nearing eleven.

Luckily, she had booked a room in a small little bed and breakfast hotel, and fell straight onto her bed when she let herself in. She always did this before going up to Hogwarts, and this time was no exception. She was amazed at organised she was at all this, even after she had drunk herself silly the night before. With a reason, this time, although the need to become drunk was obviously silly.

She didn't change out of her clothes, or make a move to the tiny bathroom. Her eyes shut, and she dreamt about Geoff.

She dreamt about him, his presence, almost his smell, that new fabric smell, although she couldn't see his face. She dreamt about him and Elsa, and they were all at the Rotten Apple, all laughing. They were laughing at her. The dream was so intense and vivid, she woke up the next morning still feeling ever wretched.

The next morning wasn't as bleak, and she took a long bath early in the morning, around seven, soaking and preparing herself for work.

I am twenty two, she thought. So young yet so old. I feel like I have lived for a hundred years already.

She soaked herself in the bath until her skin was wrinkled like that of an old woman. Definitely an old lady already, were her thoughts. She dried herself off, and didn't fancy breakfast.

She got a take out tea in plastic cup and began driving, eager to end the terrible journey and arrive to the safety of Hogwarts. She was so shrouded with her own grief that she didn't notice dark shapes flitting to and fro in the sky, quickly, like acrobats. To these shapes, dark wizards, she was just a worthless Muggle, bumbling along in a cumbersome machine.

She looked forward to seeing her supervisor, work colleague and good friend – Madam Pomfrey, or Poppy as she named her.

Poppy was a qualified Healer with impossibly good skills, both mentally and in magic. Not only was she Stella's colleague, she was like a mother or an aunt. More like a mother, Poppy often had been there for Stella, when at times when her own mother wasn't. Questa Verne, now using her maiden name, had this preoccupation either with her social life or with Stella's younger brothers. Stella could understand her younger brothers- they were at times a handful, and Dane had a great temper which was difficult to deal with.

However anything she did was slightly uninteresting to Questa, maybe because she felt she was somewhat of an academic failure, or that she partly belonged in another world. Another world which Stella's mother failed to understand or refused to. Either one, she wasn't sure.

It only took a couple of hours to get to Hogwarts from Cumbria. She felt like the life had been drained out of her.

She had cried all the tears that she needed to, yet the events of that night kept running through her head, as if on a permanent film roll. She wondered what they were doing. They'd be doing their jobs during the day – but at nights? Would Elsa go to Geoff and speak to him about the entire thing?

Did Geoff eve leave on that terrible night?

Stella took a sip from her can of coke, humming absently, rain coming down hard. The hills of Scotland were faint in the distance, rain clouds covering their very tops. She hadn't yet rung her mother, or visited her mother. She hadn't had time, and she had seen her grandmother before she went away. She'd have to take leave on the weekend. Stella could afford to not see her mother, but not her Nana.

Upon reaching the school, its high turrets hidden by the low clouds, a warm feeling spread through her body for the first time since the weekend. Dumbledore had always allowed her to park within the grounds, but as her VW Gold chugged up a steep road that rapidly deteriorated as she approached it, she was unsure now. There was Snape as the headmaster, and two Death Eaters as teachers. She felt something churn in her gut, and started to drive over bumpy grassland, where the Muggle road had stopped.

She had to drive down several narrow, desolate roads before finding the school, in the distance. She saw Hogsmeade to her right, as she kept bumping over the grassland, while the Australian rock band ACDC was blasting rugged tunes and twanging guitars.

It was almost comical.

She turned sharply, changing her mind, and drove towards Hogsmeade. Stella Shelley finally reached some cobbled stones, and parked just outside the Hog's Head pub, a place she remembered as a dark, filthy pub with rats scurrying under your feet and candle stubs and dusty glasses that filled the tables. She sat for a brief moment in the car, sighing.

A couple of dark cloaked figures popped out of nowhere, around ten feet from her, heading outwards of the village.

She took another sip of her coke, crunched it and stuffed it down the side of her seat. She hoped she was here on time. It was around nine in the morning, and the students wouldn't be here for hours yet. She launched herself out of the car, her legs and back aching and smelt the fresh air lingering with ancient wood and grass soaked with dew.

She lifted the boot door of her car, dragging out her trunk, and heard a rather high-pitched noise come out of the middle of nowhere.

Sensing it was just her imagination or friction on friction (her trunk was a struggle to pull out of the Golf), shrugged and continued to struggle. When she plonked the heavy thing down and pulled herself back out, she was breathing heavily. She glanced around at the lovely Scottish scenery, everything covered with fog, giving it a mysterious aura. She had always adored Hogsmeade. Perhaps she'd live here one day.

Abruptly, startling her, the car's boot slammed down with a slam, and she was faced with her old Potions Professor, Snape, and a rather tall man with broad shoulders.

He looked terrifying. He was swathed, like Snape, in deathly black robes, and had his brow knitted. His hair was closely cropped, giving him a somewhat militaristic appearance, and his wand was in his hand. Oh dear, she thought. This was going to be a difficult start to the year. Snape stepped forward, analysing her with those calculating dark eyes, and wrinkled his nose, as he had always done when analysing. He'd never warmed to her, and she him.

"Miss – er?..."

He began in his long slow, condescending drawl, his hooked nose un-wrinkling again as he towered above her. She'd never been a tall woman – but she wasn't exactly short either, and hated when people such as him liked to hover over here as if she was prey.

"Shelley…" She frowned.

Surely as a colleague he'd remember her. The other terrifying man, she took to be the new teacher, stepped forward, his face one of sudden surprise and shock.

"Not…the Stella Shelley?"

Her heart pumped a little faster. _The_ Stella Shelley? She didn't say anything at all, feeling rather uncomfortable under this scrutiny. The man stepped back, playing with his wand.

She hated when people did that, fiddling with their wands all the time, as if they owned the place.

"I swear to God there was a Shelley, a Mudblood , who dropped out…"

"Carrow, it would do you well to keep such filthy words at bay," snapped Snape, who didn't move his eyes away from Stella's.

Amycus Carrow surveyed Stella rather shrewdly, staring down at her attire of jeans and a sweater. He looked as if someone had held something unpleasant under his nose. She felt like it was back in the day, when the other students found she was dropping school…all the jeers from the Purist students.

"You can no longer park _this-_" Snape waved his hand repulsively towards the Golf. "Within the grounds of Hogwarts."

Stella scowled.

"Sorry, I'm under the misapprehension that Hogsmeade is part of Hogwarts grounds?" She spoke back.

She didn't need this, not now. She wanted to lie down, with a cup of tea, and start crying again. This charade already was making her feel terrible. She was genuinely feeling worthless anyway – now this.

"You cannot park your machine in magical grounds, Hogwarts or not. It's under the new order, by the Ministry-" Began Carrow, his voice becoming sharper.

Stella crossed her arms.

"Oh really? What new order is this that I am unaware of? Dumbledore always said I was welcome to-"

"Dumbledore is dead, and no longer part of the school, to remind you, Shelley," spat Carrow, and walked up to her, so that she could feel his spit reach her face. She instinctively put a hand on her face, and screwed her face up in anger.

Snape did nothing.

"The Ministry has changed, and the school policies are changing. Professor Snape is now Headmaster of the school, and you will listen to the new rules. I don't care what you used to do under Dumbledore. Nothing vaguely Muggle is tolerated anywhere in magical grounds."

She swallowed, and didn't really know what to say. His words left her feeling extremely uneasy, as if perhaps people like her, eventually, were not going to be tolerated.

Snape was still staring at her, and she turned around, shakily, to pick up her trunk. She heard Carrow again behind her.

_Did you not hear me, girl? _She heard then, Snape, shushing him. He turned back to her coldly.

"We shall transport it to the nearest Muggle village and cast a disillusionment charm on it so it is out of harm's way. Agreed?" She nodded numbly.

She walked back with them, in very uncomfortable silence. Carrow tried to chat to Snape about the new school policies, seemingly straining on Muggle-Borns.

She felt the uneasiness increase. Stella almost felt like turning back, but where would she go? Back to Zedlock, back to her terrible friends, to her cheating boyfriend that cracked her heart in two? Anger fuelled her, and she walked on ahead, stamping in the rain, and huffing. She left the two men clothed in billowing back robes behind her, and soon came close to Hogwarts. It was a beautiful castle; it really was, as she glanced up at the tremendously huge ancient building.

She hadn't yet got a photograph of it.

On the way, as she entered the cold castle of stone, and walked down many corridors towards her quarters near the Hospital Wing, she hadn't passed a single soul.

They would all be having breakfast in the Great Hall, chatting amiably about their summers and about the new term. She didn't really feel like facing up to the others right now.

She needed Pomfrey, and when she checked in the spotlessly clean bright hospital, no one was there. Stella _alohomora_—ed her room open, the large arched door swung inwards. It was a fairly tiny room – not as big as some of the teachers ones. However it had a beautifully large window that let the sunlight in. And she had a large bed, and flung herself down on it.

Home, again.


	6. Changes and New Faces

**CHANGES AND NEW FACES**

There was a knock at her door when she finally woke, around an hour later, and she assumed it was Poppy, wanting to greet her and have a chat.

Oh God, she thought as she lifted herself off the bed tiredly. I can't do the talk now; I'll have ruined this careful composure – all over again. There was no use hiding away forever, however, and she lifted her tired self up towards the ancient creaking door, and opened it, although with some force.

In front of her stood a rather sweet looking woman with large watery eyes, her brownish hair that was flecked with grey pulled back under a white cap. She seemed to be half dressed in her uniform – she had her cap on, but not her long white apron. In fact that wasn't like Madam Pomfrey at all; she was usually well kept and neat.

She saw the look on her colleague's face, swallowed, stepped inside, and flicked her wand, and the door shut quietly. She sat down on the impossibly comfy bed, and patted the spot next to her. Stella sighed, sat down and told her everything, and began to cry a little, when she reached maximum impact. Pomfrey cuddled her head to her chest, uttering 'shush' every so often. She pulled a large white handkerchief from her wand, and handed it to Stella, who blew on the thing rather loudly.

"I feel so wretched," she spoke through her now blocked nose and choked-up voice.

Pomfrey rolled her eyes.

"Well of course you're going to feel wretched!" she said in a rather high-pitched tone, which wasn't abnormal for her, but her face fell when Stella didn't react, or say anything more.

Poppy, although close to Stella, hadn't heard much from her over the holidays. Probably too busy worrying about this boy, or man, and about those friends who weren't very nice friends after all.

"Dear, was he a good one, or a bad one?"

Stella frowned at the middle-aged woman, but she understood after a while.

"Well, I guess he was good at first, and then became bad. Began cutting me off after a while, before he…well- you know." Poppy nodded.

"I thought love and relationships was supposed to be nice."

"Stell, he was just preparing you. He doesn't know what he wants. Men often don't, and they're all confused and sacred at his age. Although being twenty…four, now? And a Healer…Well he better start growing up before life will have passed him by. He doesn't deserve you. And if you're lovely to him, he will forever regret hurting you."

Stella frowned, once more, looking at Poppy.

Poppy swallowed, readjusting her cap distractedly. The room was oddly cold.

"If you show you're bitter, twisted, all of that…He wouldn't regret, he'd just keep running, or think his actions weren't so bad after all."

"I couldn't believe Elsa, of all people…" began Stella, taking in Pomfrey's words and feeling somewhat brighter. "Of course, she's the perfect witch, girl, woman, everything…" Pomfrey slapped Stella playfully on the arm.

"Don't give me that. You're a good witch. Just because you dropped your education does not mean anything other than it wasn't for you. You have plenty of knowledge."

Stella was about to argue back, but Madam Pomfrey wasn't having any of it.

She waved her wand, and her white apron appeared out of nowhere, and she put it on. Stella saw that her hair was dishevelled, as if she had been in a rush. In fact, they had not talking for very long.

Pomfrey had not even said anything to her, as she headed towards the door. Stella got up, rubbing her eyes with the tissue, hoping she wasn't an awful mess. She remembered, through all this kerfuffle, that the Staff Feast was probably starting just around now. It happened every September the 1st, before all the children or teenagers arrive.

Teenagers, she thought. Hated them.

"Pops, what's wrong? Is it that the Carrow man? I bumped into him when I arrived…"

Pomfrey turned back round, and studied her for a little, a rather worried expression on her face. It was unnerving. Everything about this day, so far, was unnerving, unsettling, all those 'un' words…thought Stella.

It was almost a nice feeling compared to the grief she felt eating away like a black hole inside.

"I don't want to say much…" Madam Pomfrey began, glancing outside briefly, as if someone was watching them under a guarded eye.

"But things are changing for the worse here. You know what happened earlier on."

There was a sudden bang at the end of the Hospital Wing, and her eyes widened briefly.

"Get your apron on…I'll talk to you soon. Get down to the Hall."

Stella stood up and put on her minty green apron hurriedly. She didn't like Pomfrey's tone, and ruffled for the apron around in her bottomless trunk, which wasn't very full in any case. In the end, she had to _Accio _it into her hands, as well as her photograph of her and her Nana.

In her rush, she had accidentally picked one up of her and Geoff, and her chest contracted again. She was smiling and he looked proud. They were at a Healers convention up north, around her birth place in Lincolnshire. She had both arms round him, and her head on his shoulder.

Even in that photo, he appeared happy, but that had been within a month of knowing each other. Why had it ended all so soon? The same, sharp voice belonging to that Death Eater rung throughout the Hospital Wing, and Stella froze. He was talking to Madam Pomfrey for a while. She remained on the bed, unable to exit her room.

In all of a sudden, a figure was at the door, and Stella nearly jumped out of skin. Her heart pounded beneath her chest.

"Hall, now, dear…" Pomfrey spoke, white as a sheet, and her hair was falling out gradually from her cap.

At the end of the day, it would probably be all over the place. Stella breathed in and out, shortly before pulling herself up, leaving the picture of Geoff on her bed. She walked along the corridors with Poppy, and Amycus Carrow ahead of them, his dark robes billowing behind him. The castle itself didn't appear very friendly, it was dark, and appeared dingy, with little light flooding in.

However, the Great Hall was a different affair. The staff table was filled with copious amounts of delicious food, all different bits of breakfast; eggs and sausages to croissants and pain du chocolat. Stella's stomach grumbled, as she continued to follow the Death Eater. The staff table was arranged differently this time. All the student tables for each house had been cleared away, leaving a large empty space for the rounded staff table in the middle.

Most of the staff was there, and Stella thought there was going to be the usual, jubilant chatter coming from her fellow colleagues, but it was almost silent. There were clatters of plates, and cutlery, and a few ample mutters, but that was it. It was like walking into a graveyard. The other Death Eater, Stella assumed, was a rather rough-looking woman with leather skin, as if she spent too much time outside. She, too was clothed in black robes, and glanced expectantly at her brother.

The Carrow siblings. Stella shuddered. All her other colleagues were there; Slughorn, Snape, Flitwick, McGonagall, Trelawney, Sprout, Vector, Sinistra, Pince the librarian, Hooch, Hagrid, and Filch, although he was stood, rather than eating, holding Mrs. Norris tightly.

Upon entering the Great Hall, everyone glanced upwards, but none of them drew a smile, or attempted to speak, as the three people moved across the large stone floor.

It was grim without Dumbeldore's presence. She then noticed, the Ancient Runes teacher, Bathsheda Babbling, was not there. Never having taken the subject, Stella had been unfamiliar with the teacher, but she had always been willing to talk to her. But the woman was not there. It made Stella all the nervous, and she felt her legs momentarily feel like jelly as she felt all eyes on her as she made her way to the table.

Three spare seats were there, and Stella took up her place next to Sprout, who gave her a warm smile. At school, Pomona Spout had been her head of house. She had always been warm and kind, and taught a subject that Stella had a keen interest in. Or did. The woman, however, turned her head hastily back to her food, and didn't ask her how her summer was. It was the most awkward affair, and Stella was not used to this. Everyone had always been chatty, friendly…apart from Snape, and a couple others. This was not normal. She shuffled a handful of croissants and pain au chocolat's onto her plate, poured herself some tea, took some pumpkin juice, and began to eat ravenously.

Snape's hideously low, drawling voice came out of nowhere, setting Stella's teeth on edge.

"Carrows, Corcoran, here is our Healing staff of the Hospital Wing; Madam Pomfrey and Miss Shelley."

Stella caught Amycus's eye, and briefly glanced over at his lumpy sister, but who was this Corcoran he had announced? Pomfrey shot Snape a rather sour glare, digging her fork roughly into a fried egg, making the yoke burst. Snape cleared his throat.

His hair was particularly greasy today, and he appeared suddenly irritable.

"Ms. Alecto Carrow is the new Muggle Studies teacher. Mr Amycus Carrow, her brother, is our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I believe you have met, already," Snape spoke, nodding his head towards Stella, who sat back in her chair, a crumb from her croissant falling from her mouth to lap.

It was all nastily formal and cold.

"And finally, Mr Magnus Corcoran is replacing Ms. Babbling as our new Ancient Runes teacher."

Stella looked around the staff table, and found where all their eyes were pointing; on her right, seated between McGonagall and Hagrid, was a rather pale, thin man with sharp and rather deep dark eyes with perfectly neat side-swept dark hair.

He was probably not much older than her, but she wasn't a very good judge on age. She surveyed him for a while. There was something, like with the Carrows, unnerving about him, but she didn't know how to place it. He seemed just as normal as anyone else, with his neat pressed dark tie, and swathed in dark green robes. A certain green that reminded her of Slytherin.

She realised she had been staring too much, when he caught her eye. She felt suddenly, a little twitchy, for his gaze made her uneasy. He didn't even blink, and she felt her skin heat up, and pretended to feel sneezy.

She always did this when nervous. Stella made a pretend sneeze, and out popped a tissue from Pomfrey's wand. Stella began eating her croissant again.

She preyed to Merlin, or God, that this new teacher, Corcoran, would not ask if she was 'The Stella Shelley' that had apparently dropped out. Hagrid seemed rather uncomfortable and pale next to the new man. Was he one of You-Know-Who's supporters? A Death Eater? What happened to Babbling? She'd have to ask Poppy, later, when all this fiasco was finished.

Everyone, for the first time, hoped the day would pass quickly, and the children would arrive. However, the day passing quickly was entirely different affair. Stella had to snap her head up again, as Snape began his little speech. He appeared rather uncomfortable informing everyone of things and events. He just wasn't cut out to be Headmaster.

"I'm afraid we have several things on our list before the students arrive. Firstly, is a brief reunion of the school year 1992, that shall take place in the Great Hall. It shall begin at ten o clock and will last around two hours. As you know, this happens every year of the first day of term. As you remember, last year was the school year of 1991. You are all cordially invited."

Stella felt her heart drop into her stomach. If she had continued at school, she would have been the school leaving year of 1992. Which meant that Elsa, Patty, Adam and Cornelius all would be here. Would Geoff come along, just for the sake of it? Would he come along, and apologise?

Her heart twisted a little, bleeding out just a little more. She thought it had bled enough. Poppy knew this, and took her hand under the table, squeezing it tightly. Stella downed her pumpkin juice in one, tried to continue eating her food quickly, but found her appetite was gone.

All the while, the presence the new teacher made was even more disconcerting, and she rose, smiling a little at Spout and Poppy, and made her way to the nearest bathroom. She threw all the contents of her stomach up, namely the breakfast she had just consumed, and was sick on all fours until her body was empty and her throat was burning. It was going to be a tough day.

Breakfast had been a shocking and odd, sombre affair, and as Stella re-filled little jars of potions, kindly handed to her in a wooden box by Slughorn, she contemplated the reunion that was going to take place in around half an hour. Madam Pomfrey was away talking to McGonagall, another close friend of hers, and Stella was left to dwell on her thoughts. She hadn't yet asked about the new teacher, and Babbling, or what on earth was going on.

Best, for now, she pondered, to sum up courage, and get this day over with. By the time she had finished filling the tiny jars and stored them back in the large cupboard in the medical room, Pomfrey was behind her, a sad smile on her face. Her heart had never pounded quite that hard before. She felt her legs feel like jelly once more, as she walked down to the Great Hall for this reunion.

The place hadn't been decorated as in previous years. However, glorious light bathed all the past students in a yellow decorated colour, shining off their robes. Despite everything, many had showed up. Stella zoomed towards the snack table, knowing it was not meant for her, but she grabbed a handful of biscuits and shoved them down, willing not to faint in front of everyone.

Pomfrey, who had been making her way towards her, was soon blockaded by a bunch of amiable, ostentatious old students, who nearly drowned her in their words. Helpless, Stella grabbed a cup of pumpkin juice, and tried to appear invisible. Her eyes darted around the crowd anxiously. She spotted all her old classmates, some who caught her eye, and pulled a hideous expression.

Some smiled and nodded, but made no attempt to come over and chat – which both bothered and pleased her. Lastly, she saw Elsa, dressed in a rather over-bearing outfit, exposing too much flesh, and her lips plastered in red. What had happened, thought Stella.

Then her stomach dropped through her arse. Not only was she flagged by Patty, Patty's large muscled boyfriend Cornelius, but Adam, and Geoff. Geoff, the same old Geoff, who walked in that way, glanced in that way. He was smiling; he leaned in towards Adam and joked about something. He had been invited by them all, and they were all smiling. Stella immediately turned round, choking back tears that filled her eyes fast, and shoved a Belgian bun into her mouth, nearly choking. She chomped on it, working her jaw harder than it had ever worked before, and the tears went faster than they came.

She savoured the sweet taste, and turned back round, feeling a little more confident. She glanced at the small little glasses of sherry-like alcohol, but she warned herself against it. It would make you appear a fool, unchanged in their eyes. You need to show them you are strong, and indifferent.

Geoff was even wearing his usual attire of casual clothes, and it was so horribly familiar, that Stella had to swallow the very hard lump in her throat, probably remains of that Belgian bun. Pomfrey's eyes darted towards her briefly, and she gave a small nod. Adam spotted her, hovering awkwardly near the buffet table, and nudged his friends. They all exchanged uncomfortable looks, especially Geoff, who had the nerve to glance at Elsa, as if he was suddenly aware of that night and his disgusting guilt.

His shoulders slumped inwards, and her heart was aching, aching for the fact that she still liked him, that all the familiar things about him used to be hers, used to be in her touch, so near and close to her that she could smell it once. That the little birthmark on his shoulder, that she gazed at lovingly. His room; was it still messy, with the coffee cups on his desk, and his coat hung up, the one he always wore?

The lump became bigger.

They made up their minds to come over and talk to her, Patty leading the way, her chin in the air; supercilious berk. She stood there, hot in her minty green gown, the cap on her head slipping off her greasy hair. She hadn't bothered to wash it since the weekend. It seemed as if all the women had made an extraordinary effort to overdress today. They eventually surrounded her, and Geoff and Elsa went to the buffet table to her right, moaning softly to each other. Elsa picked up a plate of cake, and Geoff picked up a small glass of alcohol, she didn't have a clue what it was. Cornelius shoved his hands in his pockets.

He smirked. Patty grew exceedingly red in the face with her ineptness. Stella stared at her.

"How…are you Stella?" she began, shakily. Stella eyed her, and didn't answer her, right away.

"Well, she's not going to be brilliantly shiny, is she, Pat?" joked Cornelius.

Stella felt slightly thankful, but none the better.

Elsa and Geoff came back together, Elsa eating the cake. Stella did not even give him eye contact, but she made sure she gave Elsa plenty. Elsa surveyed her, haughtily acknowledging she did not have a glass of alcohol in her hand, for once. She was about to comment on it, when Cornelius suddenly burst into laughter.

Stella could not believe any of them. It was as if she had committed a terrible deed, had said something dreadful to them, or betrayed them in some way. They were all clustered in their little group together, unwilling to break, and staring at her, the broken one.

"Well, this is awfully uncomfortable isn't it? All brought on by sex, the usual thing people break up over, isn't it?"

Patty nudged her boyfriend very sharply in the ribs, and everyone seemed to look at the floor. However, Stella locked eyes with Geoff. He turned away hastily, out of sight, through the crowds. She still had trouble fighting her tears. Elsa still had that haughty look on her face. Her best friend – did she not have anything to say? Perhaps they were together now, was that why they were so uncomfortable?

She glanced away briefly, and caught that new Ancient Runes teacher – the thin, tall pale man, staring at her shrewdly. His stare was piercing, a little obtrusive.

"It wasn't as if you really lived up to him, Stella. Geoff really didn't give a damn, any of the time. That's who he was, just a bloke," continued Cornelius, jokily. Patty seemed at loss for words to say. "I mean, I think he did it out of sympathy – you being persuasive, and he just felt sorry for you, no magical talent, school drop-out. He and Elsa have been giving each other the eye for ages-"

"That's enough!" snapped Patty, pulling at her boyfriend's arm.

Stella raised her eyebrows. So they had all been discussing her behind her back, that she was a failure of a human being? She had never felt quite so angry before.

"You know what, I don't have time for people like you," she snapped cuttingly, narrowing her eyes at them all. Elsa decided to speak up.

"Look, Stella, I'm sorry, we're _all_sorry for what happened. But what is-is!"

Stella cut her off immediately, waving her hand. She felt like waving her wand. Did they not understand? Who were they, all of a sudden?

"Cornelius, if I wanted your opinion, I couldn't get it anyway. To see from your point of view, I'd have to shove my head up my arse, and even then I couldn't get it that far in. A douche-bag of your magnitude could cleanse out a _whale's vagina_!"

She had shouted it forcefully, without realising. Some people had quietened, and turned around to stare, drink sloshing in their glasses. Cornelius appeared momentarily stunned.

Stella coldly acknowledged Elsa.

"You have the gall – to come here, not even with an apology. I have nothing else to say to you."

More silence fell over the Great Hall. She must have shouted loudly. She could not bear to stand in this place for longer, with them all conspiring against her, with their smirks on and noses wrinkled.

The people she thought she had loved and admired, those she had stuck with. She thought so, anyway. She had never been let down so badly. She stormed away from the Hall, ignoring Madam Pomfrey's glances, and went back to her station in the Hospital Wing. Thankfully, no one was there, and she could hear the chatter liven up again from the Great Hall down the corridor. She couldn't contain her tears for much longer, and sat on one of the beds in the ward.

Stella had to stop her tears after a while – it was the first day back, and she had to be with people for the rest of the day. The worst thing was that Geoff did not come to find her, and when it was midday, she saw him with the others, laughing a little, hands in pockets. It was raining. He chatted with the others a little, and they all disapparated.

He gave a glance towards Hogwarts, but nothing else. He disappeared.


	7. News for a Muggleborn

**Disclaimer; **The excerpt from 'The Daily Prophet' is J.K Rowling's words and not mine, which rightfully belong to her.

**NEWS FOR A MUGGLE BORN**

She spent the rest of the day, and the day after, trying to absorb herself into her work. Madam Pomfrey seemed to take her distance, and rightfully so, for Stella could not speak about it no more. Despite her pain, her anger and cutting remarks to those who were uncouth, gave her strength and felt like she had finalised it. It would be foolish to contact Geoff, to plead, or even say anything remotely of value.

Not even a hello, how are you. She would leave it.

The problem was – she had lost a group of friends due to Elsa and Geoff. She was angry at their unbelievable behaviour, and the fact that, now, she was cut off from them. Patty and Cornelius had not always been her cup of tea, but it had been fun in the beginning. Even Adam, the usual one to lean on, had backed out like a frightened animal. None of them had contacted her.

When Madam Pomfrey did decide to speak to her, the next morning, when a first year student had an accident from an explosion in Potions – she said that they were not really her friends if they had decided to act like that, and that life was too short. That was why Stella had absorbed herself in her work, speaking to new students, and trying to pull a smile. She did not want to return back to her little, isolated flat in Zedlock, so painfully close to Elsa, Geoff and the Rotten Apple. She would have to move, no doubt about that.

She wanted a new start. But, how? She could not afford it.

"I swear you will worry a permanent line into your forehead, Shelley," scowled Madam Pomfrey from the other side of the bed as they wrapped a long roll of bandages round a fourth year's leg, who had seared it in a Quidditch match.

"Why can't you just wrap it with magic?" the young boy spat sullenly, his arms crossed.

Stella raised her eyebrows, a smile tugging at her lips when she saw her colleague flare up with irritation. A Slytherin, she thought. Always trying so haughty and know-it-alls….

"You want to do my job? Be my guest," Pomfrey had snapped, tightening the bandage round his leg, making him groan slightly.

"Works better if done by hand. Satisfied….Grimble?"

Poppy glanced at the name stitched into his leather shin pad on his good leg, which was bent at the knee, making it a little difficult for Stella who held the large roll of bandage on the other side. The young boy reddened, remembering his mother's loveable stitching on his tough Quidditch gear.

The argument over summer about that. Pomfrey seemed happier now the boy had become silent in embarrassment, his cheeks tinged with pink.

Now it was the second day of term, and the new students were settling in, and the old students were getting back to their old ways, Stella was preoccupied with her job, and almost felt like herself again. Which she didn't know was – the one before the drinking? The shy girl at school? Or the animated child, who did not have many friends? She was still the same person, shy but bright, still with no friends….

She shook her head, as she walked down the corridors, on her way to Slughorn's office to ask for a specific potion. Some girl had been suffering from a particular fever, which only existed in the wizarding world, and forced her skin to change into a pallid blue colour, and her mind tinged with deliriousness.

It was during her lunch-break, annoyingly, but this girl, if not treated, could be on the verge of being sent to St. Mungo's, and Stella knew herself she would not enjoy a trip like that if she was in the girl's place.

She always hated having to walk down to the dungeons of the school, the steps going deeper into the castle, with walls becoming thinner and the air bitingly chilled. Her steps echoed loudly off the walls, and she felt a shudder resonate throughout her body. She saw Slughorn's office ahead of her, a large carved stone door, with a metal handle that previous paintwork was now peeling.

The door was slightly ajar, and as she held her hand up to rap her knuckles, she heard a nastily ice-cold voice speak, that certainly did not belong to Slughorn. It was so icy and deep that it bounced all around the corridor that she stood in, and a brief shiver cascaded down her spine.

Slughorn had that belly-like voice that reverberated up from his gut through his large chest and belted out from his wide mouth. This voice was quiet, used little air, thin and pale, like that….

Man. The new Ancient Runes teacher. She peered in, slightly, hopefully unnoticed. He was still in those emerald robes that were so long they pooled at his feet. Hair that was so shiny and neat the amber-coloured light (what there was of it) bounced off it, virtually. He stood erect, almost stiffly, as if he was uncomfortable, and sat on the table facing him; one chubby leg dangling off the desk was Slughorn, eating a sandwich.

It was a rather odd sight, and she was going to knock, but something held her back.

"You do remind me, most greatly of a brilliant student I used to teach years ago…" mumbled Slughorn into his sandwich, perhaps a little sadly, perhaps a little fearfully.

The man, Stella noticed, pulled a most ugly smile which did not reach his dark eyes, and did not suit him at all. Slughorn apparently did not notice.

"Ah, well you remind me of a wonderful teacher I used to have in Durmstrang…back in the day."

His attempt at small talk was strangely out of place; his effort to be chatty and amiable really did not work, for she saw something was grinding in his jaw. Death Eater, she concluded. Trust no one. Slughorn took his attention away from his sandwich briefly to study the cold man.

"Yes, peculiar. Have you always lived in Norway?"

She didn't particularly want to listen to this man's life story, nor cared to hear it either, although her curiosity was itching. Madam Pomfrey would be waiting with the sick girl. Slughorn immediately glanced up when she knocked a little, and walked into the room somewhat unabashedly, trying to ignore the man.

He was half a head taller than her, a stark contrast to Slughorn, who was around three inches shorter than she was. The Ancient Runes teacher didn't immediately turn to look at her, and only when Slughorn smiled deeply, clapped his hands together and asked how she was, and what she wanted, his suddenly indifferent but curious eyes surveyed her like she was a map to be studied.

She squirmed under this penetrating stare he had going on. She felt naked under this stare, and felt it almost too incisive.

"Perndiculus, that is a terrible, terrible fever," Slughorn chatted, while he stumbled over to his special cabinet for particular serious cases, and ruffled around, his back turned.

The man pulled his gaze away from her, and she took a brief minute to glance at him. His strong jaw was still grinding. Was he chewing something? She comically imagined him spitting tobacco like Clint Eastwood onto the floor. She wiped it away, when he glanced back at her, with those x-ray eyes of his and caught hers.

Thankfully, Slughorn turned back round at the right minute, grinning and shaking the tiny bottle between thumb and forefinger. She thanked him, pocketing the vial, turned back round, and nearly ran out form the dungeons, the chilled air hitting her.

Everything that was happening within the magical world, the creepy, unnerving things, seeped out of Stella's mind briefly as she sat eating her lunch, eyes set on the girl with the Perndiculus fever, face peaceful.

The girl had lost the blue pallor a little, but she still did not appear entirely well. All the staff usually ate their lunch with the students, sometimes in their offices, but she could not bring herself to eat with them today.

It was the third day of the new term. Despite the weird goings-on, and the tales she heard of Amycus Carrow's new teaching methods in the DADA classes, she felt lacklustre, her previous life now taking its toll on her. It was as if she needed a change, a new sporadic change to take her away from something she felt she was going to be caged in for the rest of her life doing.

However, students seemed less jovial than before and after eating her lunch to head down to the Great Hall to remind Madam Pomfrey of something – she saw one sixth-year boy with a rather beautiful bruise underlying his jaw. She snapped her head and him, and stopped him gently with her hand, frowning. He seemed a bit embarrassed.

"Young man – how did you get that?" she questioned sharply, liking her superiority over these teenagers, even if she was just shy of turning twenty-three.

How she loved to revel in it! The boy murmured something incomprehensible. She asked him to repeat himself, impatient.

"Amycus Carrow – and that is all there is to it," he said dully.

It looked, if the boy was telling the truth, as if the man himself had backhanded the boy, physically used a hand to strike. Her mouth went dry. She slipped out her wand from her apron pocket, and was about to wave it, when he stopped her.

"Don't be so bloody ridiculous," she hissed, seeing a group of dark figures heading her way.

The boy for once, gave her eye contact, and shook his head. She seemed to understand – he would be in trouble for going to get it healed. And perhaps he wanted his pride intact, that he could take corporal punishment without crying towards the 'nice nurse.' She really hated that title.

He walked off quickly, satchel banging against his side. She saw the two Carrow siblings, flanked by Snape stride towards her, the corridor now filled with billowing dark robes. She felt like a deer caught in headlights. Snape peered down his extremely long nose at her, studying. She ignored the stares from the Carrows.

"Staff get-together, the usual, tonight, starting from nine, Professor Sprout's office and the Greenhouse if it gets rowdy. I assume you already knew this?" She raised her eyebrows, was about to come back with a sarcastic quip, but thought the better of it, and shut her mouth.

She nodded, as did Snape, and the three of them whooshed off by her. Amycus decided to brush past her roughly, nearly stepping on her foot with his large boot. She caught the whiff of earth and soil, and hurled inwardly. Disturbed, she continued to head towards the Great Hall, where now, few students and staff were eating; it was nearing the end of lunch.

Madam Pomfrey had been previously speaking to Professor McGonagall, when the teacher stood up and left. They both had frowns on their faces, and were glancing down at a newspaper. Stella walked up to Pomfrey and took a seat next to her, breathing. She wanted to talk to her about the scene she just witnessed, but Pomfrey wasn't listening to her at all.

In fact the woman was busy still reading the newspaper. Becoming impatient again, Stella took _The Daily Prophet_away from Madam Pomfrey and turned the front page over to glare at the headline.

**The Muggle-Born Resgistration Commission**

Frowning, she turned the paper over to read the story, a rather gut-churning feeling in the bottom of her. Her eyes skimmed over the words, foreign and unfamiliar to her. It was discussing the creation of the Commission.

"_The __Ministry of Magic__ is undertaking a survey of so-called "__Muggle-borns__," the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets. Recent research undertaken by the __Department of Mysteries__ reveals that __magic__ can only be passed from person to person when __Wizards__ reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force. The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission_."

She suddenly felt a little nauseous as she stared down at the unbelievable words in front of her. What on earth, she thought. How did they come about, when, where, how? She knew He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had risen again, and his Death Eaters were about, causing chaos and killing innocent people, but…He had really taken over the Ministry? She hadn't really believed it.

He didn't show his face. He was controlling people.

Now, as she came out of her thoughts and glanced back down at the words again, she knew she would have to go on the run. She couldn't be here for much longer. But where would she go? What on earth could she do? People knew her here, and under Snape's watch with the Carrows about, she was doomed.

She would be sent to Azkaban. But she had dropped out, so long ago…Although still owning a wand, still performing magic, still in a wizard's job in a wizard's world. Madam Pomfrey had taken her hand carefully, pushed the newspaper aside, and pulled her up.

They turned away from the Great Hall, and walked briskly down the corridor. No one was around. Was that why there were fewer students this year? They had all been avoiding this? Pomfrey tugged on her hand sharply, as they headed for her office, tucked away in the little corner of the Hospital Wing, down at the end. The girl with the blue fever was the only patient, thankfully.

The arrogant Quidditch boy with the broken leg was gone.

Madam Pomfrey pulled her in, and slammed the door with her wand. Her office was cosy, but professional. She flicked her wand at a kettle on a tiny stove, and it boiled instantly. She did a lot of flicking with her wand, and a cup of tea was settled into Stella's hand. Stella shakily took a seat at Pomfrey's desk.

She sipped the tea hesitantly. A thousand words and questions ran through her mind like passing trains at a train station.

"So, straight to the point – we have to cover your identity at all costs. I suspected something like this would happen," began Madam Pomfrey, sighing, and pulling out a drawer in her ancient oak desk.

Previous Healers in the frames above her, all watched, fascinated, muttering to themselves. One patient in the background of the photograph sat up in bed, inquisitive too, but was pushed down quickly by an impatient witch in a bright blue apron. Stella did not say a word. Madam Pomfrey put down a card; an identity card that witches and wizards were supposed to carry around.

She peeked down at the tiny handwritten words.

_Rose Shelley. Date of birth; 26th April, 1975. _Two days earlier before her own birthday. _Birthplace; Grimsby, Lincolnshire. _Alright, although originally she'd been born in Boston…_Blood Status: Pure. _

Well that was new. Previously the identity cards only asked what wand you had, but nothing about blood heritage. But of course…

"How?" she asked, quietly.

Madam Pomfrey studied her a little, fingers interlinked.

"A friend. That's it." Stella frowned a little. "The less you know, the less you can give away."

Pomfrey's words made her shiver to the core. Sudden terror enfolded in her; and previous musings on her silly old friends and her silly ex-boyfriend and her silly little life back in London drowned away with this new-founded fear. If they found out; she'd be interrogated and incarcerated.

Tortured or executed? Her hands were all clammy. Pomfrey took a sheet of brown parchment out from her drawer and put it on the table in front of Stella. It was the new 'Shelley' family tree, all perfectly written, although it didn't go that far back. Hopefully she would not need it.

"But what about those who know me?" she asked.

"Those who know you mostly are the teachers of this school – the ones who used to be your own. No one, is on _their _side. The Carrows and the new teacher only know your last name. There are a dozen Shelleys all over the place. Now with Snape – I'm not sure. He's an odd one, but I swear on Merlin's grave Albus trusted him."

Stella raised an eyebrow. She knew Poppy Pomfrey had been good friends with Professor Dumbledore, but how close she wasn't sure.

"The new teacher – is he a Death Eater?" Pomfrey shrugged, giving Stella her things.

"I suppose he might be a sympathiser, but I would not know. I have not even spoken to him…" She stood up, finishing her tea. Stella hadn't managed to finish hers.

"I guess we will find out this evening! Now, Stella, if things get out of hand, here is my address. You can hide there."

Stella took the little scrap of parchment with Madam Pomfrey's address on. She thanked the woman, who embraced her tightly.

They both exited the office and returned to their jobs.

It reached nine o clock, and Stella had not made much of an effort. She wanted to stay invisible, and hoped that the Carrows did not like get-togethers much and would not be there. She avoided any casual clothing that might be 'Muggle' and pulled out one of her old-fashioned dresses with a lace collar and ended at the knees. She grabbed her Nana's large cream cable-knit cardigan, and slipped it on.

She had shoved her hair up in a bun, and wrinkled her nose. Give me jeans any day, she thought, as she tugged at her dress unappreciatively.

Madam Pomfrey waited for her just outside her office. It was unusual to see the woman without her apron and cap. She smiled a little. In her hands she clutched a little black beaded bag. Her hair was down a little, curly and wild. She had put a touch of lipstick on. Stella nudged her playfully, asking if she was trying to impress anyone.

Poppy Pomfrey laughed.

"I'm married you silly old maid!"

Yes that was it, her husband, a Muggle doctor, working in a London hospital. Pomfrey never had fully understood Muggle Medicine, like the majority of wizards and witches, and Muggle diseases. Apparently cancer did not exist in the wizarding world, although Muggle-borns tended to suffer from it. Pomfrey thought it might be magical genes that did not carry cancer.

Within a space of a few days, Stella felt like her entire life had been on pause, and now someone had flicked off the switch. She had been through more in a few days than she had ever in her life – despite the alcoholism, and her dropping out of Hogwarts.

They passed through desolate darkened corridors, heading towards the warm interior of Professor Sprout's office. Stella, as a Hufflepuff, used to come to this office often, to have chat with her Head of House. It was the largest office, apart from the Headmasters, and was covered with scented candles, portraits and threadbare rugs and curtains. The door at the end of the office lead directly to the humongous greenhouse. Several large and small plants were around the room; some that bit, some that swayed, and one which humming softly.

As they entered, she saw Slughorn's jacket tail being chewed on by a prickly plant. It seemed to have an expression of lazy satisfaction.

Most of the usual teachers were there; save for Snape, and, as Stella glanced nervously around, the Carrows. She blew out a sigh of relief, and headed immediately towards the buffet table, where there was a tiny arrangement of snacks, and a large, too large, assortment of alcohol.

She reached inside her pocket for the little vial of gin she had taken the trouble to fill, and found a jug full of pumpkin juice. Madam Pomfrey watched the girl with a careful eye, but she was filled with sadness. Stella turned away from the table, and surveyed the situation.

Everyone appeared to have arrived on time, which was nice enough, although Hagrid, as usual, was late, and stumbled in, after hitting his head on the rather low doorway. He'd taken the care to dress himself more formally, sporting one of his dreadful ties. Someone clinked their glass with a spoon, and Stella turned around to face where the noise had been coming from. She suddenly felt a little awkward in her dress. Witches of the day never wore dresses that were short as hers; it was just above her knee. She knew that Elsa, who worked in the fashion industry, was trying to change that, but many wizards and witches were adamant about changing their clothes, much like everything else. Stella always wondered by the supremacist purebloods always thought themselves above Muggles.

Muggles were far more advanced in technology, wizards, she considered were almost _lazy…_

But that was her resentment against the people who had treated her with hostility ever since she dropped out. Slughorn smiled cheerily at everyone in the room, resting one hand on his potbelly. His hair was thinning madly, as the light above him caught stray frays of it.

"Well everyone, our first little get-together of the term, before we get down to seriousness of the term! Enjoy and drink all you like!"

She wasn't sure if he was being truthful – surely they were not allowed to drink that much, considering the new, strict rules of the school, with Death Eaters posing as teachers. She didn't feel like chatting to anybody. What surprised her was Professor Firenze, the centaur that half shared the divination teaching job with Professor Trelawney, was there, talking away chirpily to Hagrid, a pint of mead in his oversized, strong hand. She glanced down at his broad chest, lost in her own world. She'd always had a bit of a peculiar crush on him, attracted by his astonishingly blue eyes. If only he taught when she had been at school.

She was brought quickly out of her reverie when the door creaked opened a little, and a tall figure slunk into the room. She couldn't see over the heads of the professors, but prayed it wasn't Amycus or Snape.

She had a very strong desire to blow everyone off. The desire was overwhelmingly so. She wanted a book, a bath, a cup of tea, and nothing more.

She sauntered her way over to Hagrid and Firenze, after seeing she was completely alone. No one had made the effort to come up and talk to her, but she was not very bothered. There was nothing more than she wanted than sleep…to get the images of old friends and her ex boyfriend out of mind….

She was about to make headway towards the two (men? Could she say men?) Professors, but the pale man came into her view, almost a bit abruptly. She halted, nearly being thrown off course, and her drink sloshed out of its glass. All of it, actually, and she gazed, a little bemused, at it on the ground.

No one had noticed. She glanced up at the rude stranger and realised with a sinking feeling it was the Ancient Runes teacher, gazing down at her. He was smirking at her, and held his hand, as if apologetically.

"Oh terribly sorry, Miss – er?" She didn't finish him off immediately, looking at the deep pools of black that were his eyes. If looks could kill, she thought dryly.

"Shelley," she replied, rubbing her sopping hand on her dress, and realising it was the dress she was wiping it on, and not her minty green apron she was used to.

He smirked again, and pointed to the table behind her. She realised she had not shaken his hand.

"May I get you another?"

"Um, yeah. Sure." She followed behind him, almost feeling like a servant. He had only changed out of his emerald robes, and kept the dark trousers, tie and shirt, only made casual by a thin jacket. If only it was a cardigan, a thin one. She couldn't take men seriously in thin cardigans. Come to think of it, Geoff used to own one…

"What was that you were drinking anyway?" he tried, casually.

He poured half a pint of mead for her. Nice choice, she thought. Did he read her like an open book? He didn't have a drink of his own.

"Oh, some homemade stuff," she lied. He looked astutely at her. She tried for some comic relief, her desire to get away coming almost unbearable.

"Let me get yours…"

She went for a large glass of cognac, and handed it to him. He seemed somewhat surprised at her decision. She remembered Geoff as the lager and ale kind of guy, but this man didn't look like he would stand looking so…undistinguished with a pint glass. Distinguished she thought, that's a way to describe him, as she studied him as he took a sip of the alcohol.

He nodded at her, and glanced around at the scene of teachers, who were becoming merrier by the minute. Her eyes drifted back to Firenze, forgetting briefly she was in the presence of this strange uncanny man. They stood in uncomfortable silence.

She felt like he towered over her. Hagrid was the one who towered over people, but this man was different. He made her feel small, worthless. Perhaps it was his habit of looking at her. She felt a little nervous, remembering her current situation; one of the Muggle-born registration commission. He might he doing undercover work. She took a chance to steal a glance at him. He seemed to be studying the people around him very carefully, as if trying them all out, judging them. It must have been quite a while, because she found herself turning back to the table, and pouring more gin and pumpkin juice.

She felt a dark presence behind her.

"That smells potent," the dark man remarked. Gin doesn't smell that potent, she remarked in her head. She struggled to remember his name? Major Coran? Marcus Karanan? Mag….Cor….

Sweet Jesus, she thought, I'm tipsy already.

He was staring at her, waiting for a comment, or watching her carefully.

"You smell like a dog," she chirped back, not meaning for it to come out rudely like it did.

He raised an eyebrow, stopped beside her, and she got an odd whiff from him. She couldn't even tell what it was, but it was something that made her shiver.

He leaned over and picked out another half mead, but she stopped him, signalling her own drink.

"I wasn't aware that smuggling alcohol was allowed," he remarked, a little snappily.

She knew she had been rude, she hadn't even asked his name, but then again, he had not introduced himself. She pulled away, uncomfortable with his presence, and walked over to Madam Pomfrey who was chatting with Professor Sprout. She left him behind, and the two women smiled, and nodded briefly, before going back to their chatter. She felt his eyes burn through her back. However, she was drawn to the women's conversation, and already had her third drink. By her fifth, both she and some others were swaying a little.

There was more avid chatter in the room. She had lost sight of the Ancient Runes teacher, thankfully.

As the evening passed, people were getting out of hand. Stella had lost sight of Slughorn, Sprout and Madam Pomfrey, and was now sat down at the side, near the drinks, which were fast diminishing. She seemed to have a certain song stuck in her head, the same one all the time when she was drunk, a _Head East _one, a song from 1975. Her father used to play it quite a lot, along with the Paul McCartney band, _Wings._

The place was filled with much noise, and she felt her lolling to one side. It was going to be the sort of evening where she was going to get so drunk that she would be sick down the toilet. What was wrong with her! She was at work! It was Hogwarts, not the bloody Rotten Apple. She fell forward, catching her chin on the floor, feeling her jaw realign itself. There was a terrible pounding in her head, and slowly, she tried to lift herself off the floor. Nothing's changed, she thought desolately. Jerking out of her piteous state, a firm hand grabbed her upper hand, and hauled her entire body weight up. She felt her shoulder crack upon this rough touch.

She stumbled onto her feet, and straight into the eyes she looked at Amycus Carrow, the Death Eater. His eyes were like black holes.

"I think this so called 'get-together has got out of hand, do you not think?" he barked, sending a spray of spit onto her face.

She wrinkled her nose up in disgust, not thinking, because she was so drunk. He hadn't released his hand. He leaned forward, so far forward that she caught a whiff of his breath, and inwardly shuddered.

"I have a feeling I know who you are, Shelley. The famous Mud-"

"Amycus, a pleasure, I did not think you were a party-goer," came a cold voice out of nowhere, and the large man let go of her arm. He seemed to have made an imprint in her arm, and she rubbed it absent-mindedly.

The Ancient Runes teacher seemed to engage the other in a mild conversation, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, seeing her rub her arm. He saw how drunk she was, piteous thing, and her hair over her face, her eyes lolling all over the place. She did not have any respect for herself, whatsoever. He felt a bit appalled.

"Well, Corcoran, I have had the pleasure," spoke Carrow, as if he had to grit his teeth to say the word pleasure. "But I think this party has over-run itself, people have had their fair share of fun."

He turned away, and started to break up the people, shouting loudly over their heads. It was impressive; no one was really taking any notice; they were all in their own, drunken stupors, their own worlds. Stella managed to straighten herself up, glanced around, seeing the Carrow siblings breaking up the crowd, their strangled yells resonating throughout the room.

She thought of the party itself; and an image of Elsa together with Geoff. Were they together now? She thought of how her friends would have carried on with their lives, without her. She broke away, ignoring the Ancient Runes teacher, heading for the door. Poisonous tears threatened to sting at her eyes, warning her of her misery. Where was Pomfrey ever when you needed her?

"The famous what?" called out a voice from behind her.

The teachers were refusing to leave the room, and the yells were becoming louder. Frowning, she turned back around to stare at the man who called her, and saw it was the pale new teacher again, sizing her up. She swayed on her feet. She knew what he was questioning though; she wasn't drunk enough to mishear or misinterpret something. She knew what Carrow was about to call her as well; the famous mudblood who dropped out. She felt like someone was suddenly scraping at her mind, as she locked eyes with him.

Feeling slightly horrified, she turned away, grabbing the door-handle. She swung it open, and hurried down the corridor. She heard soon enough, heavy steps behind her. She tripped on her own feet, and braced herself against the wall, breathing heavily.

"You did not answer my question," the teacher said to her.

She frowned at him.

"What kind of a question was that?" she snapped back at him, hardly in the mood.

There were continuous yells coming from Sprout's office. The man scowled darkly, and turned to look where it was coming from.

"The teachers here need to remember why they are here. Why the Headmaster allowed for this, I cannot understand."

She didn't listen to his inner monologue. She concentrated on her banging head, which made her eyes ache. The stony corridor was nastily dark. If she hadn't been intoxicated, she would have been a little nervous. He snapped his head back to her, when she looked back to him, he was clutching his wand. She frowned.

"I think I have some idea of who you are," he began, and Stella seemed to snap out of her stupor. She moved away from the wall, and began to stumble away, but felt his wand suddenly dig into her spine, hard. Gasping with the sudden movement, she was forced to turn round.

"I think you're imagining things. Whatever it is, I don't know you, and it's none of your bloody business." He gave a low hiss at her language, that dark scowl on his face. She felt terrified in all of a sudden, that her secret cover was blown almost instantly. How on earth did he know? Was he some sort of mind reader? Oh wait correction; was he skilled in legilimency?

"Lower that wand of yours," she snarled at him, defences coming up.

"I don't think you're in a position to give out orders," he snapped back at her.

"Who the hell do you think you are, threatening me? You're a Death Eater, aren't you?"

He laughed, a high, cold laugh, which heightened her nervousness. The yells from the office died down, and she was left in the dark with this stranger, who was supposedly a teacher. He stopped his laughing, and glanced back down to look at her, his face twisted into an ugly smile.

If it had been a different world, a different time, she might have described him as rather attractive, but now, with this ugly smile, and this intimidation, she realised it was not a different world.

"Who the 'hell' are you," he mimicked her, "to question me. What I want to know is who you are. I think I know who you are. I could easily turn you in if you keep up this charade."

It was her turn to laugh; the situation was so ridiculous to her it seem rather laughable. He didn't take her humour lightly, and flicked his wand. For the second time in that year, she was thrown violently a metre or so away. She fell against the floor, her head smashing against the stone floor. She coughed a little in shock, and her hand immediately went to her head, this time she felt blood. She pulled it away slowly.

It was all over her hand. Her head was thumping very hard now; she felt like all the bones in her face had shattered. Stunned, she was unable to get up, her body paralysed. She felt mentally paralysed; her so called colleague had just assaulted her.

His face, now devoid of smirks or smiles, came into view. Some of his parted hair, small curls fell into his right eye, as he bent down, a frown on his face as he bent down in concentration. She was breathing loudly. He reached into his shirt picket, and pulled out a tiny vile with a miniscule amount of liquid in. There was no label on it or anything. He leaned forward, one knee leaning into her stomach, winding her, and grasped her jaw with deft, long fingers. She couldn't fight him; something happened to her head.

She couldn't move. He poured the slightly sour tasting liquid down her throat. She felt the coldness of it seep down her throat.

He leaned back, and watched her. She stared at him, and he her. Please let someone, anyone enter this corridor, she pleaded to nothing in particular desperately.

But it was one of the most deserted corridors of Hogwarts. Several corridors lead off from Sprout's office, and she had picked the one that lead her to desertion. Within a few minutes, a strange feeling to confess all her secrets came to her, and with horror she realised what it was. The bastard, she thought, and it slipped out her mouth. Well, it was Veritaserum.

"Your name and date of birth," he spoke tonelessly.

She struggled – desperately, almost writhing, but in her intoxicated state, and her head which was making her spin, forced the words to come out of her mouth. His dark image in front of her swirled. She told him her full name and date of birth, and could not stop herself. He sat back, thinking deeply, and then stood up, towering greatly over her. She still could not move.

"You were the one that dropped out? The Mudblood?"

She flinched a little at the dire insult, and did not look at him. She did not answer him for several moments, until he bent back down, and stabbed her cheek with his dark wand, causing her to cry out briefly. The serum forced her to nod. He stood back up again, thinking deeply once more. What on earth is going on in his mind, she thought. He will turn me in. He is an undercover agent that turns Muggle-borns in.

In fact, it was several moments later, and she nearly passed into unconsciousness. Roughly, he hauled her up to sit via her shoulder whom Carrow had cracked about half an hour before. He cleaned the blood on the stone floor where her head been, not even muttering the spell. He kept a spider-like hand on her shoulder, but she could tell he did not like to touch her. She forced herself to gaze at him, angry at being manipulated this way. His eyes were so brown they were almost black.

"I'm going to offer you a deal," he spoke, harshly, but quietly. She swallowed thickly.

She did not speak. "In normal circumstances I would have handed you in without question." She became quickly became irritated.

"Your point? Your vindictiveness has been weary, tonight." He tightened his painful grip on her shoulder. Her voice had been louder than she thought.

"Be silent!" he hissed. "Your intoxication is a disgrace. But I am going to offer you your freedom, and your life, presumably, and you are going to offer me something." Am I now, she thought sardonically, gazing at him with a hard expression. "I am in need of assistance. I am looking for an important artefact. In exchange for your freedom, you shall do my bidding and therefore I will not turn you in."

His words were so serious, so genuine and hard with impassiveness she did not make a sarcastic retort. She stared at him in horror.

"Why me?" she whispered, eyes wide. He smirked, and pulled himself up, storing his wand back in his trouser pocket, and wiping his shirt, as if wiping himself clean of her.

"You're perfectly in my power – easy to manipulate…Someone to do my dirty work." She frowned, and pulled herself up, but failed the feeling in her legs still gone. He laughed at her again.

"You bastard…" She murmured into the ground, seeing his polished black shoes beside her nose. This was terrible, her mind thought, despite her pain, and drunkenness.

She couldn't lift herself up, and she heard his steps retreating.

"We shall continue this talk tomorrow," he concluded, and left her on the floor, groaning. After a while, she imagined being found on the floor in the morning, and it was an unpleasant thought. Lifting herself up, head still banging wildly, she stumbled back to her room in the Hospital Wing.

Her face, when she lit her wand in front of the mirror, was a deathly white. There were smears of blood around her jaw. He must have put his hand on the ground, in her blood, when he went to pour the serum down her throat. But something was terribly off; however. She leaned in closer, and gasped, pulling herself back quickly when she saw what was around her mouth. His nails had dug into her jaw, and partly around her mouth; so hard he had been, he had pierced her skin. She took a small mirror and held it behind her head.

Her blonde hair was dirtied with dark spots of blood. She cleaned it up quickly. She took a potion for headaches, and changed into her pyjamas. She was shaking so much; she couldn't even swallow a glass of water, and dropped it, the glass smashing nosily on the floor. Reaching her bed, she climbed in, cold and terrified.

Sleep hit her very quickly.


	8. The Getaway

**THE GETAWAY**

When Stella Shelley woke up the next morning, her alarm ringing loudly at six o clock in the morning, her jaw ached. She thought she might have had it the easy way, and perhaps the entire thing might have been a nightmare. When she glanced into her carved mirror in her bathroom, apparently it had all happened. Even down to her sore looking jaw. The marks the man had left were worse this morning.

She took some creamy concealer from her bag and rubbed it in. It was a poor job, but at least the redness was gone. She would call in sick, today. No, she wouldn't, her mind argued. She would not suffer, or hide. It was unbelievable what had happened; she'd been assaulted, manipulated, and interrogated.

She wondered where that man had got the serum from. She struggled to remember his name, as she let the warm water cascade down her aching body. Her head from last night was still banging. After the refreshing shower, her bones warmed, she found the piece of paper that Madam Pomfrey gave to her.

For when things get out of hand, it was a place to hide. Stella bit her lip worriedly. The best thing today was to get on as if nothing had happened; then she would make her escape this evening. Before pondering on it anymore, she pulled her trunk out, and quickly packed everything away the flick of her wand.

It all flew fast into the trunk, and it slammed shut loudly. She slipped on her watch, glancing at the time. It was time for breakfast in the Great Hall. Her head had mellowed this morning into a soft headache, as she began her walk. Her knees were trembling, her hands clammy. When she entered the Hall, it surprised her how everything was so normal; the chatter of the students, the low murmurs of the teachers eyeing the students, Filch the caretaker holding his cat in the corner, hating the students.

The idleness of it all, she studied, and took her place next to Madam Pomfrey, still quaking in her boots.

Madam Pomfrey immediately sensed something was wrong, but was wise not to question. Stella did not look out for Magnus Corcoran that morning. She shovelled heaps of food onto her plate, thinking she might need it. Amazingly, she did not feel the need for a morning drink. It was only tea and orange juice that satisfied her at most. Snape the Headmaster did not give, nor had he ever, given a speech, and he sullenly walked last into the room with the Carrows, and nearly all the Great Hall silenced.

Stella noticed some of the first years appeared terrified. She watched Snape, who ate like a bird, while Amycus Carrow beside him hauled mountains of food onto his plate. His sibling, Alecto, seemed to do the same. Her eyes drifted of their own accord, and she nearly jerked when she spotted the pale man, even paler today, picking at his food. He seemed to be studying it more than anything. He soon gave up, and went to drink a coffee or tea, watching the students haughtily. She shivered. He didn't look as if last night had happened – hair in place, cool manner in place. While she, on the other hand, had been marked, both physically and mentally.

She jerked out of her seat, when she felt Poppy's hand on her forearm.

"Dear! What on earth is the matter with you, this morning?"

Stella shook her head, ignoring the woman. She quickly ate the rest of her breakfast, and stood up. She muttered she would sort the Hospital Wing out for the day, and disappeared. Part of her longed to tell Madam Pomfrey about this, but part of her did not. It wasn't a wise idea – she didn't want to bring Poppy into it, and if she was to make an escape, well, it would be best if no one knew.

To slip out of sight.

The Hospital Wing seemed to be busy during the day, with students who seemed to pull some fake illness in order to get out of lessons with the Carrows. Some had been manhandled, mostly by Amycus, who refused to do his lessons, which consisted of casting terrible spells on other students for practise.

Despite disliking the Carrows intensely, Madam Pomfrey lost her temper with the students who had the fake illnesses and sent them away quickly. The day had been stressful. Stella made sure not to move out of Madam Pomfrey's shadow, and because it was so busy, she had stayed in the Wing all day, with no questions from her colleague either. During lunch however, she told Poppy she wasn't hungry, and stayed in her room, checking every last little thing was in place. Madam Pomfrey frowned, but was too flustered from the business of the Hospital Wing to pry. She scrambled off, sighing loudly, her cap nearly slipping off.

Stella sighed loudly herself, as she slammed her room door shut, locking it with the flick of her wand.

Immediately, her mobile phone, which she had enchanted not to go haywire within Hogwarts boundaries (why she brought the bulky useless thing she did not know) buzzed deep within the depths of her trunk. She flung open the trunk and _Accio_-ed the thing into her hands. Or tried, apparently the spell did not want to work on a Muggle device. I thought I'd enchanted it, she thought. She dug her hand within her clothes, and felt the tremble in her palm.

It was her mother.

"Oh, it's you." Why did she think it might've been Geoff? She wanted to slap herself.

"What kind of tone is that?" Her mother was immediately annoyed. She had to come up with an excuse.

"Oh…I…expecting someone else." Her mother paused.

"Are you alright, Ella?"

Her tone was now serious. Tears welled up in Stella's eyes now her mum had used those words.

She bit the side of her cheek, hard.

"Um, yeah, just silly things have been going on." Well, not silly, apart from her ex boyfriend and old friends, that seemed silly compared to this man who had said all those dreadful things to her.

"Oh dear, you never visited when I asked. You will have to ask for leave anyway."

Stella's heart seemed to lift a little – her mother wanted to see her? She could get away from here.

"Darling, your Nana has taken a turn for the worst. She's not in intensive care like a few months ago. But they said she hasn't got much longer to live. Her kidneys have failed, and they think her bowels and liver isn't doing too good either."

Then Stella's heart dropped into her stomach, winding her, and the tears fell down her face. Her heart was pounding.

"I'll come down. I can't speak for long, love, Ma."

"Safe journey sweet."

Her mother put the phone down first, and for a moment Stella listened to the line that had went dead, the wailing tone travelling through her ears and into her mind.

She swallowed. She had to think – when to get away?

As soon as possible, and she had to tell Madam Pomfrey, it wasn't fair to leave the woman in the lurch. And she could ask Pomfrey to tell Snape that Stella needed leave for a family emergency. She didn't think this idea was so smooth – it was nearly laughable. She stood up, checked her room, and took her apron off, flinging it on the bed.

She was just left in a nurse-like smock and black tights. She forgot about the cap on her head, and re-entered the Hospital Wing, heading for the Great Hall. Some students passed her in little groups, ignoring her and laughing, the latest gossip on their minds. Some greeted her joyfully, some shyly. She just nodded at them, too immersed in her own world. As she reached now a quiet lone corridor, she spotted thin Magnus Corcoran at the end, and skidded to a halt on the stone floor, heart in her mouth.

He seemed to have done the same, his eyes narrowed. Should she be utterly irrational or rational? She could just keep walking, and pretend that nothing happened, or confront him. Or run away. She did the latter and spun back round, heart beating so hard she was sure it was getting close to expiring. He had been several metres down the corridor; now he had caught up with her extremely quickly. He grabbed her shoulder in a vice-like grip and turned her around to face him. Her face was as white as a sheet. She saw his eyes drifted down towards her jaw; the concealer seemed to have washed off during the day, probably her sweat.

He analysed that for a while, before speaking.

"Surely I do not have to remind you of our deal?" he spoke calmly.

It was a rather sly tactic; for him to bark or hiss at her, when they were in such a public place in daylight was unwise. She regarded him for a minute, pausing to think what he really wanted. She remembered an artefact… It was all so horribly vague and she had a nasty feeling it was all some sort of ploy. He was reading her like a newspaper, face devoid of emotion.

"How will I know you won't turn me in?" she asked seriously.

"I am true to my word," he answered, simply.

She frowned.

"You haven't given me enough detail. You could be tricking me – for all I know."

His temper seemed to be very short-lived and leaned closer to her. She inhaled this musky smell of his, reminding her of last night.

"If you do not listen to what I say, I will turn you in. It will be so easy." She considered this, and swallowed, trying to remember what he had said last night. She wasn't sure what was the better option, clearly being turned in wasn't the best, and she knew somehow he didn't want to end up doing that. He almost seemed slightly desperate, hungry for something.

She didn't want to help him, despite his promises.

"An artefact," she spoke, and he nodded.

Who are you, she thought, having the audacity to look at him hard in the face. She knew she wasn't going to listen to him; her Nan was dying in London, and once she away from this nightmare, he'd be unable to find her.

"I don't side with those dark wizards," he spoke softly.

"That's supposed to enlighten me," she laughed, crossing her arms.

She felt slightly more at ease now, her old confidence coming back, the one before all the drinking. His nostrils flared briefly, before there were noises coming down the corridor. He pulled her close, and whispered into her ear.

She gave an involuntary shiver; she hated it when people talked like that into her ear.

"If you come for a stroll with me at dinner, then you will know."

He pulled away, and gave a false smile to those who passed, it was the falsest smile she had ever seen in her life, and thought such a smile didn't exist. He nodded at her, spun around, and strode off, his dark green robes flying behind him. She stood there, mouth open, until he disappeared down the corridor.

Stella stood there, keeping her wits together.

She turned around, back towards the Hospital Wing. When in her room, she dug in her trunk for some parchment and a quill, instead, pulled out a biro pen in the back pocket of her jeans. Tongue out, frown masking her face, she wrote a small note to Poppy Pomfrey. She'd likely be fired – but she was a Muggle-born. People were going into hiding, escaping, perhaps even going abroad. She struggled out of her smock, threw her cap off, and changed into her jeans and a sweater.

Concentrating, trying to remember her classes in school, she managed, just about, to resize her trunk; it was now the size of her hand. She reached for her large tapestry bag, and placed everything she needed inside. As Stella glanced around her room, her room that she had lived in, and learned to love, she had a strange feeling she might not see it again. After tidying everything quickly, she casted a disillusionment charm with some difficult, and glanced into the mirror. It had worked; her body was not there, but she'd have to be fast, it would likely not hold for long.

She decided to run for it, clutching her tapestry bag tightly. She had no idea where she would go, and how she would get to London quickly. Snape had neglected to tell her what the nearest village was, where they had taken her car; she wasn't even sure they had put it there, they might have disposed of it. It was fairly easy to escape out of Hogwarts, when no one was looking, when you were disillusioned. Down the great steps, and into the front courtyard, she slipped on the slippery stony ground from the recent weather, panting heavily already.

It was a long way down to the entrance gates.

Her heart sunk, as she continued to run through a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, coming closer to the immensely tall gates, that were blocking everyone in.

When she reached the wrought Iron gates, towering impossibly over her, she sighed with frustration. They were utterly closed. Slipping her wand out of bag, she waved a simple unlocking spell, but to no avail. Her heart was still hammering beneath her from the physical exertion. Stella stood there for some moments, feeling utterly stupid, and lost. She gazed up at the tall Gates. Either she could climb them, or levitate herself – no, that would be an impossible idea. Instead, she levitated her bag with all her worldly possessions in, before letting go of the spell.

The bag plonked loudly onto the muddy ground beneath. Leaving no time, not even glancing back, she attacked the gates. Wet from rain, her sneaks slipped mercilessly as she hauled herself slowly up, using every possible muscle in her body. Her face became red from exertion. Her fingers slipped as did her feet.

She was halfway up. Reaching the top of her gates with one hand, when she heard voices. Her breath hitched in her throat. Straining her body, she pulled herself up with her arms, and draw one leg over the top. It was a long way down. The voices became closer. She wondered if the charm had worn off yet. Yet, as she sat on top of the gates, one leg over each side, now soaked, for it began raining again, she realised she was unable to move. It was too far down – it was likely she'd either break her ankle or wrist.

The voices became louder, and snapping her head around, she saw it was two men, one handsomely dressed, the other rather tatty, holding up an umbrella.

"HEY! What do you think you're doing?" bellowed the man clothed in black.

At first she thought it might have been Corcoran, looking for her. Her eyes became wide. She didn't even think. Stella hauled her other leg, took a breath, and fell to the ground, remembering to bend her knees. She was lucky that she had jumped when she could – for the man who threw a spell at her, had missed and the gates rocked.

"Stop! Stop right there!"

She started to run again, as fast as she could, sighing with relief that she had not broken anything. She could hear the men's voices behind her becoming louder as they tried to open the gates, but the gates were not opening.

_We'll have to alert the Headmaster! …_

No you fool, open the gates!

She continued to run down the muddy track that was the route to Hogsmeade. Although a ten minute walk, for her it was a five minute jog, and by the time she was surrounded by the quaint thatched cottages, her lungs were full to burst and her breath was wheezy and hitched.

_Must learn to stop smoking._

If only those idiots at the school had left her car in Hogsmeade, parked by the Hog's Head. If only! She was going to ask someone for a ride, either by broomstick, or apparition, or some willing beast. However, by the time she reached the pub, her VW Golf was still there. It was not a car anymore – it was a burnt scrap of metal. She wrinkled her nose, as the smell hit her. They hadn't even the courtesy to clear it up. How on earth was she going to explain this, first to anyone? There would be a hell of a lot of paperwork to fill out. Rage built up inside her like a fire, and she stormed into the pub, suddenly tired of life.

"I need to get to London – fast! I don't care how."

There were only a few people in the pub, and as she shouted, some of them didn't even bother glancing up. The barman gave her a hard look, his tattooed arms resting against the bar. Analysing her, he turned around and disappeared into the room behind him, and came out with a rather groggy looking man.

"Julius will take you – he has to be in London in a few hours time." Julius nodded at her, shrugging his rather shabby robes around him. He walked around the bar, with a limp, and gazed at her clothes, with a slight bemused frown.

"Whereabouts?" he grunted. "Apparition alright with you?"

She gave a slight nod; she didn't like any sort of wizard transportation, but at least this method was quick. Flying via broomstick was less than tasteful. Stella wanted to say 'St. Thomas Hospital' where her grandmother was situated, but it was in a particular Muggle area. She ticked things over in her mind, and the man tapped his foot impatient. She said 'The Leaky Cauldron', figuring it was the best place. From there, she could walk to the hospital.

The man seemed pleased; it was probably near his spot. He grabbed her arm, and they apparated into nothing, before she had time to gather herself.


	9. Lost and Found

****

Author's Note: Thank you to all those that have reviewed. It means so much (I even dream about getting reviews, how sad!) I hope you stick to it, because all your questions will hopefully be revealed. I certainly will not leave this story to fester, and will finish this :3 This chapter I dedicate to the memory of my wonderful grandmother (Ishbel Neilsen). x

**LOST AND FOUND **

St. Thomas's Hospital was a large, square building that had a rather grey, miserable impact on the area. Everywhere around the Hospital was crossed off with double yellow lines, traffic warnings, ambulance warnings. She saw the staff flit to and fro, in and out of the entrance doors. She shuffled her bag on her shoulder rather awkwardly, entering the Hospital, the smell of iodine hitting her abruptly.

It was sparse in the corridor, and it wasn't what she expected – rather calm and quiet, people not even glancing at her when she entered. By the time she had got to the Hospital, it was nearing six o' clock, and her stomach rumbled as she walked down the clean ground floor of the Hospital. She checked in at the reception, the middle-aged woman saying her Nana, name Isabelle Vlautin, was in the G ward, on floor five.

She glanced briefly at the colourful, colour-coded sign on the wall; Medicine for the elderly.

She passed a coffee shop, a newsagent, a bereavement office, and a chapel. She tried not to stare at the bereavement office, and continued to walk, breath hitching. She felt like she had entered normality upon walking into the Hospital; she left the madness of the magical world behind her.

Stella blocked Magnus Corcoran from her mind; she didn't know who he was, and what he wanted.

That she did know was an artefact. She hadn't a clue what for; it seemed as if he was against the Death Eaters. That relaxed her a little, but his approach about it all hadn't been relieving, or pleasant. At the end of the corridor, were at least three lifts. A balding man had, what seemed, his wife in a wheelchair, her face glum. The other person looked like someone who had just come out of theatre; in burgundy scrubs and a cap.

In the G ward, it was fairly quiet. It wasn't surprising since most of the day staff went home. She asked for a Ms. Vlautin, and the nurse in royal blue led her to a small little room at the end of the corridor. She passed rooms by her, all with the same kind of elderly women in her Nana's situation. Some women were hooked up to bleeping machines and drips. Others lay there, silent, motionless, no one around them. Others had family beside them, chatting happily. Someone women attempted to eat, others had staff to help them.

A slow spread of melancholy and grief washed over Stella as she followed the nurse.

Her Nana's name was written on a little whiteboard next to the door. The room had a large window, although the yellowish curtains were half closed. Her Nana had one tube going into her nose, fastened on her cheek with tape. Inside the tube appeared rather unpleasant; bits of brown sludge, all leading to a plastic bag hooked onto the bed's railings. She suspected there was another bag on the other side.

She glanced around the room; her mother had been here recently; there was a _James Patterson _weathered copy on the sideboard, with a bag full of biscuits and crisps. Her Nana's watch, a Sekonda with a black leather strap sat on the bedside table, beside a large vase full of flowers. Stella could not feel any tears. She touched her Nana's freckled hand and squeezed tightly.

Isabelle Vlautin jerked out of her reverie, thinking about her last husband. It must have been a dream. She wouldn't think about that man, even if her life depended on it. She glanced around at the white, sanitary room, catching a glimpse of the sink with the elongated tap. Ah, yes, perhaps her life did depend on it.

The tube going down her throat was impossibly uncomfortable, again. Where were those bloody nurses? She felt a warm presence, and turned to find the source. Her eldest granddaughter! She had grown a little. Her face seemed to have thinned, her brown eyes somewhat more mature. Hair as ever unruly. Why did she sport that terrible shoulder length perm? She realised she had spoken it out loud, and Stella laughed.

"I'm glad you're awake Nana."

Her Nana, although very weak, squeezed her granddaughter's hand a little and smiled weakly. Then, thinking, she frowned.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Stella found herself rolling her eyes, hand still clutched in Isabelle's.

"Nana, you think I'll be at work when you're like this?"

Her Nana waved her hand dismissively, coughing a little. It was distressing for Stella, to see her once plump grandmother like this; thin at the cheeks, her chest flat under the blue hospital gown, her hair tousled. It was very unlike her; a woman who had used curlers in her hair for the past fifty years.

"I'm fine, pippin, honestly."

Stella knew the sentence was so laughable, but so like her Nana she couldn't help but smile. She reached back for her hand, and felt a lump in her throat. The iodine smell was still hanging around; reminding her that death was near. She saw, peeking through the thick yellow curtains, it was raining outside. It was always raining.

"Are you being fed?"

Stella didn't think so; she had a funny feeling the tube spoke for itself. Her Nana seemed a bit distracted, but she seemed to hear what Stella was saying. She shook her head.

"I'm twenty-two years old, you can tell me."

Her Nana glanced back at her, a small smile on her face, masked by her approaching sadness.

"Still too young," came her grandmother's reply, leaving Stella momentarily frustrated. She then remembered her mother's words; Isabelle's bowels, liver and kidneys were failing. Stella turned back, her eyes full of tears.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to see you sooner, Nana." Her Nana appeared dismissive again.

"Dear – don't be silly. You always see me."

"Yeah. I would've before I went back only…"

The brief picture of Geoff flitted into her mind, with Elsa, her white face, and the entire scene at the apartment. She broke the news, slowly, to her Nana. Her Nana had a very deep frown on her face, her blue eyes flecked with brown troubled. Stella climbed onto the bed awkwardly, and settled down next to Isabelle, letting her tears drop.

"Oh, he's not worth the paper he's written on."

Stella started to laugh, very loudly, and Isabelle joined in, remembering her own younger days, regrets and pleasures, hurtful people and wonderful people. Stella closed her eyes, and they both fell asleep, then and there. Later on, when Stella became uncomfortable, she let her Nana sleep, while flicking a women's magazine, disgusted with how trivial the gossip was, in relation to everything that was happening.

She saw a figure approach the door gradually, and jumped round, heart tightening suddenly in panic. Instead of Magnus Corcoran or some dark wizard, it was a doctor, mid fifties or thereabouts, with white blond hair, a stethoscope draped around his shoulders, clipboard in hand. He smiled briefly, letting it drop as he checked a chart beside her Nana's bed. Her Nana opened her eyes.

"Ah, Ms. Vlautin, how are you doing?" he asked, not really looking from the chart.

"I've been better," came her Nana's short reply, and the doctor, Dr. B. Davis, said his nametag, laughed a little.

Stella couldn't really see this was a laughing matter, but she knew her grandmother always had a sharp, sarcastic wit. The doctor, after checking the chart, checked her Nana's blood pressure, and took an IV needle out. Stella held her Nana's hand tightly, watching the doctor soothe the elderly woman, as he pulled the incredibly long needle out. He swiped the now pouring blood away, and patched it with cotton wool and tape. Stella took a closer glance at her Nana's hands.

They were nastily bruised; shades of purple, green and black around the top of her hands and at the crook of her elbow.

"What have they been doing to you Nana," she whispered.

She no longer felt the tears anymore. She forgot the doctor was there.

"You're the…granddaughter?" said Doctor Davis, gazing straight at her. She nodded, introducing herself. He could see she had been crying, her nose pink, although her nose always tended to take on a pinkish hue. He stood up, straightening himself.

"I'm on my break – there's a canteen on floor three. You look like you need something to eat."

She smiled, grateful at his kindness, and kissed her grandmother. The doctor walked out, and Isabelle winked out.

"He fancies you." Stella gasped.

"He's over fifty…" Her Nana sighed, now rolling her eyes.

The nurses changed over the needles in Isabelle Vlautin.

While Stella was downstairs with the doctor, chewing her cheek, deciding on a jacket potato with beans or a chicken Korma curry, they inserted a little drip connected to a small device that held morphine inside and bleeped when it ran out. Isabelle drifted into a drug-induced coma. The nurses changed her and moved her, tilting the bed so she was more comfortable. They brushed her dark dyed hair aside.

It hadn't been washed for days. Then, they left without looking back, taking the yellow contaminated sharps box away, and the tray with the swabs and cotton pads. They left the side light on, and all inside contained was a lonely, dying woman. Outside, the world continued, ignorant.

Meanwhile, the doctor bought her a coke, and she paid for her own meal, deciding on jacket potato with beans, and lots of grated cheese. She was inherently annoyed she had to buy the cheese in a separate plastic box, and nearly giggled towards herself; the old things that used to annoy her old self. The doctor didn't say very much, knowing her pain. He dealt with these things all the time, but didn't become immune to it. He let her do a lot of the talking, which she did, the happy memories of her Nana. Although grateful for his company and the dinner, she stated she needed to get back to the room, for sleep.

She thought about asking for an extra bed, but thought the better of it. Slipping into her pyjamas, drawing the curtains on the outside windows, and closing the door, she slipped beside her Nana, ignoring the morphine drip device. Her Nana's breathing, she noticed, was a little more laboured, and her throat sounded congested. She put her hand in her Nana's, and felt herself drift off.

Stella woke up the next morning, the familiar bleeping of the hospital back. It kept her up a lot of the night, and she switched from the bed to the large armchair beside the window. The elderly women in the other rooms were forever calling for the nurses, causing the large alarms to go off in the corridors, flashing a green light. She was dying for a shower, but decided it would be best until she went home – home, home that was, not her apartment in Zedlock – her mother's house on the outskirts of London.

She'd be able to see her brothers Alex and Dane, the young brothers whom she had neglected to see for a long time. She still hadn't given them the Muggle chocolate bars – Mars bars - she bought nearly a week ago, before all this happened. Stupid boyfriend, and friends, she thought. Stella remembered she bought a _Daily Prophet_ in The Leaky Cauldron near Diagon Alley, and pulled it out. She read the usual, and the unusual, the new policies the Ministry was bringing in. It wasn't pleasant to read at this time of the morning. She was careful to keep it out of sight, just in case another nurse or doctor came in.

Flicking towards the back, that usually contained articles about the socialites of the wizarding world; she nearly choked when she saw a photograph of familiar people. The article was written by the distasteful journalist Rita Skeeter, who wrote terrible gossipy rubbish. Socialites indeed. Elsa Neave, her ex-best friend who had not yet contacted her, or said an apology, was stood there rather glamorously dressed. Lights flashing about her, she was flanked by a tall man in a Healer's uniform. Both were grinning falsely. The article stated she was opening up a new chain of stores and she was currently dating a world authority on the power of Healing potions.

Rich of course, Stella thought dryly.

Her stomach pummelled when she spotted beside them, her old group of friends and no one other than Geoff. Patty and Cornelius were stuck together, along with spotty Adam and lastly Geoff, who pulled a wide smile. He was stood next to the famous Healer. Her chest suddenly ached, and there was a frown etched in her face.

She felt her sudden grief fall back to her. The fact that she had been hurt, and now stamped on, caused an involuntary sob rise to her throat.

"Once a bitch, always a bitch…" she barely whispered, nearly crying.

"What's that?" the nurse asked, as she came in, offering her tea.

Stella smiled sheepishly, hastily stuffing the newspaper into her bag. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Just someone silly in the paper." The nurse nodded, leaving.

Stella tore the paper back out, withdrew her wand and burnt the paper into ashes. She washed it down the hospital sink. Hopefully the Ministry would be so busy with controlling everyone that they didn't notice her cast a charm 'in the presence of a Muggle.'

After all, she was a Muggle-born. How would she do magic? Outrageous.

Kissing her Nana, she decided to take a walk after changing into a new shirt and leggings, sported with her knitted cable cardigan, trying desperately to forget the newspaper. The hospital seemed peaceful, a safe place to be, early in the morning. It was around eight o' clock, and it was before the main horde of staff started their shifts. She saw a few tired looking staff in the lift with her, just finishing their shifts, desperate to go home.

Although her stomach did its usual rumble, she drifted down the corridor of the ground floor, smiling a little at people as she passed them. There was the chapel, next to the bereavement office, and she entered. It was a simple, white room, with glass windows and a tiny podium at the front. There were uncomfortable pews, around five rows of them side by side each other. She decided to take the front row, wanting some peace. It was so quiet she could hear her ears ringing for some odd reason.

She wanted to cry – it was the right time to cry, to let out a sob, let all her angst and feelings out.

Momentarily she forgot that she had just up and left her job – she forgot about Corcoran, his deal, and the fact that she was in danger, because she was Muggle-born. Everything in her world at the moment was her Nana, whom she loved very dearly. Who cared what Corcoran had said to her? She didn't understand his motives, other than looking for some magical, ancient artefact. He hadn't explained at all, just used threats, empty ones. Surely he was capable enough of finding that on his own?

She loved no one more than her Nana.

Her Nana always had been positive, yet a feisty character. As much as Stella loved her own immediate family, she couldn't help but love her Nana just a little more. She thought with a pang she hadn't talked to her father, who was in Wiltshire on a farm, for more than two months. The man who was so embittered and grumpy she usually strayed from. Perhaps it would do him good to hear from his eldest. After all, he was her father, despite his grumpiness, and the way he had upset her mother, although her mother, she knew, was the guilty party too. They were as bad as each other, and never had seen eye to eye. Isabelle was her mother's mother. Her Nana had been divorced. Is it possible, ever, for people to stay together, Stella pondered.

In fact, she was so lost in her own complicated thoughts, she didn't even hear the door open, which had been opened very quietly and slowly.

She didn't hear it shut tightly either, nor the heavy footsteps that came up behind her. It was only when a voice sounded through the fairly empty, cold room, that she drew her head out of her hands, and looked ahead of her. She didn't really care to look at the person who was talking.

"Ah, I didn't expect you to be here, Miss Shelley."

Miss Shelley? Doctor Davis, suddenly all formal now, thought Stella rather sarcastically. He kept talking about something, about the hospital, how strange it was, until he was right behind her. He certainly had changed his tune, but she was indifferent to this. She still didn't turn around, her grief overwhelming her.

Abruptly, she felt two warm hands on her shoulders, which squeezed them briefly, a little too hard for her liking. Her Nana was right; he did fancy her a little. Within twelve hours? Impressive. She'd rather enjoyed that hospital canteen dinner date. A snort came out unexpectedly from her nose. She felt fatigued from her uncomfortable night's sleep, and sighed.

"Doctor, thanks for your support, but I might have to ask for a bed. Or I might just sleep in the armchair. I'm very tired."

She tried to stand up, her body shaking a little as she did so, yawning very deeply. When she re-opened her eyes to gaze ahead, wanting nothing more than sleep, she saw it unquestionably wasn't Doctor Davis.

Instead, stood Magnus Corcoran, rather striking in a thick dark coat, his once perfect wavy hair starched with wind and rain outside. He looked at her threateningly, a most bitter stare.

She tripped over the step that had led down to the podium, in order to rush out and before she could hit the ground, he grabbed her around her waist. He had kicked her feet off the floor so she couldn't further endeavour with her escape plans, and her mouth opened in a silent yell. His grip was nastily firm around her waist, digging his nails in, like he had done with her jaw. He seemed to have read her mind.

"I see that's healed up nice and easy," he spoke in a low murmur, eyes cascading along her jaw line.

She felt appalled. Struggling against him would be futile, so she tried to be calm.

"What do you want? Why did you come here?" she choked out, not wanting this. He smirked. She prayed someone would come in; walk in, at any moment…

"You are incredibly foolish. Running away from Hogwarts has landed you in all sorts of trouble. Don't expect to get your job back when you return."

She instinctively tried to pull away, but all he did was drag her closer. Was this his idea of some sort of joke, this toying with her, he had a smirk on his face, one that he had pulled before. He clearly thought she was unintelligent, because he knew who she was, a Muggle-born and a school drop-out. Her heart sank grimly, as she sat in his arms, trying to stay unruffled.

"Well, in this climate I don't think my job is the most important thing," she spoke back at him, teeth gritted with narrowed eyes.

Her heart sank lower. What would Poppy Pomfrey say? She then thought of Nana upstairs…If she wasn't there when Isabelle died, she would castrate this man. She had stared right at him when she had thought it, and felt that same tugging, sharp pain in her mind, as if someone was flicking through the book of her memories, of her thoughts. She hadn't seen his mouth moved when he performed a light _Legilimency _spell on her, using wandless, non-verbal magic.

When the pain had vanished, Stella immediately knew what he had done, and was nearly glad.

"You can't expect me to follow your so called empty threats when you haven't explained who you are – what you want. You've done the noble thing and haven't turned me in. Well done."

He started to become weary of her constant attitude – this woman had the gall, after what he did to her, to run away, most pathetically.

All the way to a despicable Muggle hospital, full of unfamiliar smells, lights, people dressed in funny uniforms, all staring at him with open mouths like idiotic animals…He put a hand in her thick hair – Merlin, what a handful of knotted, curly, tangled hair that was – and fisted it tightly, pulling her head down as hard as he could. She was stupid, coming here, right in the middle of London. He was impressed she had managed to find someone to apparate with her to this city. It had been so easy to track her down.

She really was the worst witch he had ever come across, and it disgusted him, right down to his core.

It would have been easier to turn her in, get rid of someone as tarnished and contemptible like her. However, he couldn't let this opportunity go. He had been waiting, desperately, for far too long and needed anyone. It would be simple to dispose of her when he was finished, and no one would know that he required and manipulated a simpleton into working for him.

"Aargh!" she yelled, but he shushed her angrily.

He spoke to her neck, rather than her face, more likely a mole on her neck.

He felt the heat coming off her, he saw the moisture in her skin where she had sweated in fear. Being so close to her, breathing in her rather fusty fragrant smell, he nearly reeled back in abhorrence, thinking of who she was. He suddenly longed to wash himself, scrub hard at his skin, getting the impurities off. He felt he had tugged out several of her permed, blonde hairs.

They were corrosive in his hands! In fact he was so close to her neck his lips were virtually on it, breathing in this fusty, musty house smell she had. It might be that cardigan she was wearing, or perhaps it was this hospital, it had a most peculiar smell, one he had never been acquainted with. He nearly forgot where he was, when her voice spoke out loudly, rather irritated.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He peeked over her head, at her now piercing eyes, narrowed once more at him. Trying to mask his sudden weakness of wandering thought and embarrassment of being so close to her neck, he pulled a smirk. It worked rather well.

"Toying with you."

She felt a pool of bile at the bottom of her throat, a small flush reddening her cheeks. Now he'd do anything than toy with her. He would do anything rather than touch her, this animal; stealing magic….People like her didn't deserve magic. He didn't know why he had not turned her in….why…

A hand, unexpectedly, was brought around his face.

He felt her hit him hard and his eyes glistened with sudden tears of pain, his arms letting of her. His nose had cracked a little, and she had fallen to the ground. Immediately, he unsheathed his wand from his dark coat, face smouldering with fury, as she rushed towards the exit. He had swiftly muttered a spell to muffle the sound within the Chapel, and waved his wand fiercely at her.

She had been close to the door, but not close enough. The spell hit her in the middle of her back, and she toppled over a covered table at the end, and disappeared behind it abruptly with a resounding crash. Her cry of pain sent a reliving shiver inside him; she must have broken something. There was no more movement and only her pain he could hear; muttering and mumbling. When he drew nearer, wand still clutched very tightly in his hand, she was mumbling uncouth words about him, over and over again.

"So, will you now listen to what I tell you, you worthless Mudblood?" he seethed at her.

Stella lay there, trying not to move. She wasn't sure if she had broken anything, but his spell had hit her so forcefully, that she fell to the ground hitting her head hard again. Her vision danced in front of her, black spots gathering at one corner. Her chest heaved. She had plenty of things say to him, but her head was thumping hard again.

He brought his polished shoe down on her wrist. She squeezed her eyes tight.

"I will kill off all your friends and family if you don't cooperate."

"Don't bother going to all the trouble," she snapped heatedly, ignoring her headache. "I have lost friends and already one member of my family is dying. I didn't come here to escape you. If I wanted to escape I would've gone abroad-"

"I would have easily found you, you idiotic girl! These Muggle places will not hide you."

"They'll confuse you purist wizards, though."

She smiled, as if sharing her own private joke. He nearly sighed in frustration. She was close to pushing him over the edge – when was she going to succumb to his threats, violence, and not joke, or snap back? He felt like crushing her wrist into the ground. Instead, he held himself. She managed to stay quiet.

"If you do as I say then you won't find yourself in this much trouble," he spoke quietly, gritting his teeth.

She stared at him for a fair while, mind ticking over. No one had yet entered the chapel. No one was bothered. The pews seemed relatively untouched, the bibles in the corner of the room flaking at the edges, where no little human hands had been to soak them with moisture.

"If you stop hurting me then perhaps I'll listen."

He laughed, that same high-pitched chilling laugh that frightened her more than his violence, his smirks and the breathing in at her neck. She couldn't help but let the word pervert resonate throughout her mind, and she erased the thought immediately. He continued to keep his heavy, black shoe on her wrist, grinding it a little, as he stared derisively down at her.

"I've already caused you damage, yet you are still trying to defy me with this rude attitude."

She nearly laughed herself. He was that arrogant enough to think she was being rude to him! She had only sprung her defences up. It wasn't every day that someone forced truth serum down your throat and threatened you senseless. He raised his eyebrows, then lifted his foot. She couldn't move at all, her head still thumping.

She breathed out some air, closing her eyes in exasperation.

"If you let me see my Nana, before she dies, I will help you. Do whatever that needs to be done. As long as you explain to me along the way."

He spun back round hastily, eyes aflame. She didn't see it. In the process of her words and thoughts, he had wandered to the podium, down a step, arms and expression crossed. His mind was a mass of tangled, murky thoughts.

"I do not have to explain anything to you," he hissed, like a snake.

She shivered, and felt her heart go. She tried to heave herself up, but the pain in her head was not going – it was the same place she had hit her head when both him and Elsa Neave had fired a spell at her, causing her to fall back hard. Curse Elsa and her stupid, selfish ways!

Magnus Corcoran, as he proclaimed to be, walked back around the desk once more, his wand stowed away. She raised her eyebrows, wandering if he was going to say anything more. He seemed to wrinkle his nose in disgust as he grabbed her sweaty hand, his own icy cold, and pulled her up. It was the most awkward method of pulling her up, and her shoes slipped on the tiled floor. He still clutched her hard tightly, pulling her forwards a little, where she came to his throat, watching his Adam's apple bob a little as he swallowed.

She swore he was wearing some sort of cologne. She closed her senses.

Before he could speak anything more, however, a rather large crash, the reverberation of glass shattering, sounded from outside the chapel. It seemed like it had come from the entrance of the building. Corcoran let go of her hand quickly, alerted, standing straighter. He muttered for her to wait there, and walked to the exit, creaking the door open a little. She began to hear the noises.

Plaster of walls being torn down and tumbling to the ground, smashing upon impact. People's sudden warning yells of shock and fear. The rather odd expel of air when a wand was waved intended to do no good. Heavy shoes thundering down the corridor, coming closer to them….

It didn't sound like anything apart from wizards. Corcoran shut the door, locking it with his wand.

"My Nan…" she pleaded, already knowing it was the Death Eaters, or Snatchers, maybe that were coming to look for her.

It could be Snatchers flanked by Death Eaters. How absurd, to invade a Muggle Hospital…they would have to do a lot of memory charms after this.

Corcoran scowled at her darkly, and she darted away quickly, although not running. She ran for the other exit, into the chapel's seperate room, and out into another small corridor. She could hear him behind her, and he took her shoulder, pulling her back. She would not let him do this.

The place was strangely eerie, the screams and yells were distant but not far. More thud and crashes filled their ears. If he touched her anymore, she knew he would apparate them. He has touched me far too much, she thought, and broke away from him, sending him a stunning spell under her left elbow.

She was not that stupid to neglect carrying her wand on her at all times. Completely taken aback, Corcoran flew at least two metres from her, crashing down the corridor out of her sight. She took the stairs instead of the lift, panting with fear as she took two steps at a time.

Corcoran lifted himself up immediately, Death Eaters were nearly behind him now, thumping through the corridor. He took after Stella, like a panther.


	10. Corcoran's Secret

**CORCORAN'S SECRET**

Stella was panting hard by the time she reached her Nana's room, chest twitching. Despite the constant fearful yells, screams and the crashing below her, her Nana lay there as ever peaceful, her mouth almost upturned in a smile. She knew he would be on her tail, and she gathered her things quickly. She sat back on the bed, grabbing Isabelle's hand hard. Her Nana's breath was more laboured again this morning, and she groaned each time upon taking a breath.

Stella's own breath hitched, fearing.

Her Nana briefly opened her eyes, swirling them about. They were sticky, and her eyes had seemed to change their colour, the whiteness gone and replaced with a sickly yellowness.

Isabelle seemed to stare straight at her, her breaths dying down. The pulse was still going very fast in her neck, and as Stella sat there, she knew the worst was about to happen. She briefly forgot about the tumult around her, and reached into her bag for her mobile phone. Before she could dial her mother's number, her hand was met with a hot, razor-sharp burning and she instantly dropped the phone.

In this time, she had jerked away from the bed, clutching her hand in pain. The phone had smashed to pieces on the ground. She saw the familiar dark figure of Corcoran in the doorway, nostrils flared, dark brows crossed, dark wand in his hand. He seemed to fill the doorway.

"This is insufferable," he spoke to her.

She was too busy clutching her hand tightly, where his spell had hit her. She walked to the tap, running her burnt hand under the rush of cold water, gasping.

He stared at her. She was utterly, utterly intolerable, and most bizarre. Whatever she had been holding in her hand was not going to help her now.

He slammed the door, pulling the blinds down with his wand, locking the door with a spell more powerful, at least the Death Eaters would be fooled. His eyes finally moved from the Mudblood to the frail, shrunken woman on the bed, her mouth half open, her eyes fluttering. Her throat was congested, and her hands were horrifically bruised. He didn't understand, nor did he want to. He felt he was in a strange, alien world, the ground uncomfortable underfoot, the smells hideously foreign, the interior innovative. This must be the root of her intolerance of him, of her ignorance and her brash, snapping words. She turned around once she had finished with the water, and met his eyes, unsteady on her feet. She didn't look at her relative. She clutched a paper towel to her hand, her brown eyes unwavering.

"I will explain, and you will listen."

She still didn't waver, but moved closer, picking her bag up, her hand meeting her grandmother's. He paused, trying to listen in for sounds of the dark wizards.

"I've gathered certain listeners – followers, if you like, that have been willing to listen to an outsider. There is an important, most prevailing artefact, which was hidden fifty years ago or thereabouts. I have spent time trying to find it for the last few years. These followers have helped me. I know where its location is-"

"You're being very vague," she spoke suddenly, widening her eyes for affect.

It took each ounce of living particle within him not to withdraw his wand and curse her on the spot, and even grasp that throat with the mole of hers in his fingers – squeezing very tight, feeling that windpipe.

"Quiet," he hissed, sharply enough, so that her pupils dilated in fear, and she tightened her hold on her scalded hand.

"Do you not ever hold that wayward tongue of yours, _mudblood?_'" She narrowed her eyes, but further spoke nothing, letting the silence take hold, although the thumping below seemed to become louder.

"It is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named I wish to defeat." Rather out of your league, isn't it she mocked in her mind. A bit far-fetched?

"I thought that was Harry Potter's job," she spoke.

Speaking out of turn once again, he admonished in his head, wanting to tear his hair out in frustration. She was the most irksome mudblood he had ever laid eyes on, worse than ever he had ever met in school, although he made sure they had stayed away from him….

"A mere boy? You are disillusioned," he snapped, laughing a little, parting his full lips briefly, showing rather oddly white, square, small teeth.

She frowned in disagreement, still clutching her Nana's freckled hand. She moved a finger a little, finding the woman's pulse. It was still going, ever so slowly.

"This artefact was hidden by the Dark Lord many years ago – fifty as I had mentioned. He had hidden it in his early years. This will help defeat him."

She raised her eyebrows – much to his absolute vexation, but the door burst open from behind him before he could enact on her behalf. Corcoran managed to move out of the way before the door could blast him to the ground. Instead, it struck Isabelle Vlautin's bed, pushing it right towards the end of the room, by the window. The morphine machine flew to the ground, pulling the needle drip out of the woman's arm, and blood slowly began to leak onto the white covers. The woman stirred for a little, her eyelids fluttering, and she lifted a hand weakly, but it dropped to her side.

Everything seemed to happen in flash.

Stella's mouth opened in an o-shape, ready to scream, but Corocran was on to her so fast she had barely any time to think to rush towards her Nana, to save her, to save the last little ounce of life she had left. She was pulled into Corcoran's musty smell, entrapped in his arms, and he instantaneously apparated them. She again felt the terrible sucking feeling that squeezed all her limbs into one impossible space, crushing every last bit of breath that she had. They left behind the angered Snatcher, who indeed had been looking for a certain Muggle-born, now on the Wanted list. She was not yet on the Undesirables.

As they apparated, Stella could already her yells of anguish being left behind. By the time they landed rather awkwardly in what seemed a sparse field, appearing to be a moor-like land that belonged to Yorkshire, she regained her external composure, and lifted her heavy head.

She was still encased in his rigid hold, her body atop his, breathing in that waxy smell – he was wearing a waxed cloak. She creased her eyes, her heart beating wildly. Unused to Apparition still, she felt like she was still back in the hospital room with her Nana, the woman's pulse still holding on.

Magnus Corcoran was briefly detained himself, until he got a hold on where he was, and who was atop him, this horrible creature – he threw her off roughly, standing up and brushing down his cloak. There were in marshy land. The rain beat hard down on them, and the sky was filled with looming dark clouds, unwilling to relent. He scanned the horizon, and finally around the unfamiliar scene, long grassland, with rolling hills flanked by these heavy clouds that threatened to burst further rain down on them.

It was a familiar scene, he realised, spotting the crumbling desolate house. To Muggles, it would be nothing but further marshy grassland. He saw they would have to cross a brief river that had burst its banks before reaching the ancient building, where its roof had caved in, and the windows boarded up. He murmured at her sharply to get up, seizing her arm, nearly wrenching it out of its socket. He paid no heed to her whispers of agony, whatever it was – something about the elderly woman left back in that uncanny hospital.

This was the safeguard, he was so close to it he could almost smell it – yet it seemed like only yesterday he had created it. His own safeguard against the world, the world who would seek to destroy him.

Stella, her once permed hair now plastered to the sides of her head by the pouring rain, scowled deeply at his words. He was so engrossed in tramping along the grassland, mumbling sharply and quickly like a mad man, that he nearly forgot that she was behind him, the rain masking her tears.

She wasn't sure whether it was tears for her grandmother, or tears of pain – he had hauled her up roughly, twisting it so hard that her shoulder cracked, yet again. Then again it might have been tears of anger, he had touched her, manhandled her far too many times. Considering he was a wizard, she was inquisitive to know why he hadn't used his wand on her more, than his own fists. She was at a complete loss what to do – she couldn't apparate of course, and to argue with him to take her back to Nana was a futile attempt.

It would have been a rather ridiculous idea to come back, for she surely would be caught by the Snatchers. Her life seemed to have taken a turn for the worst – firstly Geoff and her friends, now pulled into this dangerous game, with the loss of her Nana beside it. When they got to the river, he simply walked through it, kicked the water, as if kicking it aside in his heavy dark boots. He still had not turned back to see if she was catching up, yet he must have heard. The river water in the middle came to her waist, and her teeth chattered as the water seeped inside her leggings and knickers.

She felt the little rocks under her foot, and nearly prayed there was nothing sinister to drag her in.

He paused, turning around in the ridiculously heavy rain, the wind blowing a gale. The clouds were moving rapidly behind him on the horizon. She hauled herself with difficulty out of the river water, suddenly self-conscious at being watched by him. He spoke nothing, and continued to march along the grassland, which was less flooded than the last. She tripped several times, and nearly collapsed with exhaustion when they reached the entrance of the house, flanked by wrought iron gates, similar to Hogwarts entrance gates. She had the brief memory of climbing over them in vain, and nearly smiled to herself. There were large, stoned gargoyles that guarded the entrance. Corcoran uttered the _Reducto _curse and both jumped out at them, snarling, before they crumbled into dust.

"It is underground…come..." he spoke, now softly, waving his hand at her, and striding towards the entrance door.

They walked in a terrible silence. She felt like she was about to meet her death – and wished upon it, for now it struck her that her Nana was in all probability dead. She thought of the blood, and the morphine device, smashed on the ground. For now, she would do as this man required, and face whatever she had left behind. It seemed the best option. She welcomed death. She had been drinking herself ill for four and a half years. The steps they led up to the somewhat magnificent entrance doors were cracked, filled with grime, weeds, and dirty marks that entailed black dust and brownish stains, its origin incomprehensible.

There was a faint mist that drove itself at an alarming speed through the entrance door. The heavy steps belonging to Corcoran ceased as he arrived at the top of the crumbling staircase, and turned around, glaring at her. Trembling from her soaking clothes, he seized the front of her wet cardigan, heavy on her, and yanked her wand out of her wand.

"I am rather staggered to gaze at you with that in your hand for once," he smirked at her.

His disdainful, humorous look vanished; he stepped forward rapidly, and roughly shoved her forwards so that she set a foot inside the crumbling building. She could continually hear pieces of the building fall inside, tumbling and breaking upon reaching the ground. It was incredibly dark inside, with no light to guide her, and it smelt fetid – like something had recently died. Of the little light which caught on various parts of the entrance hall, all she could see was a hanging chandelier with various cobwebs that dangled down from it.

She could not make out what the floor appeared like, for the mist kept flowing out at a certain kept speed and did not relent. The place reeked of such rotten aromas that she instantly gagged. Her instant reaction was to turn back round, but stepped back into him, into his broad chest. He put down a hard hand on our shoulder, squeezing it, bending down to whisper into her ear harshly.

"What now, afraid are you, little mudblood?"

She swallowed, keeping her gag reflexes at bay, and he prodded the tip of his wand deep into the small of her back, urging her forward slowly. The mist around their legs was chilled. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble.

"I do not know where I'm going," she snapped back.

Corcoran gritted his teeth, and dug his wand sharper into her back, leading the way, trying to remain calm. When they fully entered the house, the entrance door immediately slammed behind them, leaving them in a feral darkness. Instantly, Corcoran lit his wand, seeing Stella's white face. He was not expecting this.

His plan was to attempt to lure her in, firstly, so if anything unpleasant was to attack, she would be the first victim. It would give him enough time to counter-attack. He stiffly put a hand in his cloak pocket and drew out her wand, giving it back to her.

"You will still lead."

She snatched it from him, and turned back round, taking small, hesitant steps forward. He was too focussed on the situation and his plan at hand to take notice of her constant impudence. To him she had snatched it off him with far too much alacrity, spinning back round defiantly. Below them, their feet began to crunch as they moved through a large doorway to a separate hallway. The mist seemed to have disappeared, unnerving her, her hand slippery with sudden sweat. She didn't dare lower her wand towards the ground, where their feet were still crunching on something familiar yet unknown, her sneakers slipping to a side, his heavy steps seeming to annihilate whatever lay in his path.

She had lowered, eventually, her wand, and had pointed exactly where he wanted.

Shoving her aside roughly, jabbing his elbow into her side, he marched to the trapdoor, revealed now by the luminous light of his wand. It was thick with dust, and as she focussed her eyes through the dark, small little skeletons of what either were mice or another small creature. The trapdoor when lifted by his wand, sent unbelievable masses of black cloud into the air, and she lifted a hand to her mouth.

Wrinkling his nose, Corcoran bent his large stature over the trapdoor, surveying its interior with somewhat disinterest, and seized her upper arm, ordering her to go in first. She bent over, and saw nothing but darkness. The light of their wands caught on the side of the wall that the trapdoor led to, and she saw grey bricks ladled with cobwebs and grime. There was no ladder. Thinking that arguing with him was unwise, she got down onto her buttocks, lifting her legs jadedly over the side.

He promptly snatched her wand out of her hand, and kicked, as hard as he could, into the small of her back.

Crying out in anguish, the unexpected kick jerked her forward enough inches so she fell down the gaping black hole. The fall was only by a few mere metres, so she fell without injury, though the kick she felt at her backside was throbbing. Stifling her anger, she had no idea where she was, and thankfully, she had landed on something relatively soft, no more crunching bones beneath. A flow of light shot down the entrance tunnel and blasted into the echoing chamber, spreading volumes of light in every possible corner. It was an antique underground room, with carved columns and gargoyles as its interior, the land below her, mossy and grassy.

There was not much to say about the room. The gargoyles were exactly the same as they were outside, yet they did not more. It was stuffy, nearly claustrophobic, the temperature higher than normal room temperature.

She was caked, from her ankles to her knees and her hands to her elbows in mud, or some dark substance that she was not acquainted with.

He landed efficiently on his feet a minute later while she tired to get her bearings, still crouching on the ground. She heard his cold laugh reverberate throughout the warm, eccentric room. Pulling herself up on her knees a little, she discovered a door, small enough for a cat to enter on the other side of the room, barely visible with a naked eye. She felt him grip the skin on the back of her neck like you would with a dog. He was gritting his teeth, grinding his jaw; she could nearly hear his teeth crunching themselves into dust.

He was about to say something, speak insults to her ear, his lips almost touching her earlobe, but there was an abrupt rattling that came from the other side of the small door, guarded by a grinning gargoyle. Flicking her eyes back towards him warily, and the door, she was unable to decide whether the stone statue had moved or not. It's impossibly large eyes, almost maniacal, had moved to gazing straight at them both.

Corcoran moved his pinching fingers away from her neck, and stood up. He walked around her slowly, and towards the gargoyle, who had kept still while the man moved towards him, with the pace of a creeping tiger. She realised she still had her wand in her hand, miraculously. As soon as she looked away, the gargoyle had leapt out at Corcoran. The man for once was knocked back, completely taken by surprise, and he fell into a patch of mud, his cloak flying out from behind him.

"REDUCTO!" She had shrieked with such force the thing shattered upon impact, and rained down in tiny pieces upon Corcoran, white shards on his black attire.

He briefly looked at her, aghast with fury that she had saved him, and enlarged the door hastily. Mercifully, the other gargoyle did not move.

"You…first. It will not stay large for long," he spoke thickly, pushing her through.

He entered after her, into more unfamiliar darkness. This time, she smelt a familiar smell, something like seaweed. He shot several sprouts of light into the air, into four corners of what was now revealed a roofless cave, with a dark gaping hole in the middle.

She saw it move a little and realised it was a lake, the moonlight from outside catching the water. Glancing upwards, she saw the crumbling remains of the house's roof, and further, the rain still falling and beyond the stars and the moon. It was very bright.

"So this is it," she snapped, patience breaking. "This is where your grand plan unfolds. Mindless wanderings in a dirty underground under a dirty house..."

"Quiet! Do you not desist? The more I hear from your soiled, mudblood mouth, the more I grind with great energy to silence you with either death or continual suffering."

Stella felt a shudder cascade down her back; thinking of the three Unforgivable curses, the _Cruciatus _being the first. He ordered her to stay where she was, still permitting her to keep hold of her wand. She clutched it tightly, eyes trained on him warily, as he walked through endless rocks and pebbles down to the edge of the round lake, the water dark and lapping at his heavy boots. He was stood erect and silent for a while, before his arms swept up above his head hugely, like he was performing a séance.

He was suddenly speaking a foreign, unfamiliar language, hissing and cussing, his hair becoming wild.

She took the time to realise that his hair was longer than she had thought, hanging in loose tendrils, unkempt to what she had first seen in school. Her gut dropped. His appearance had changed quite a bit, for she hadn't noticed at first because of what had been happening. He seemed slightly taller than he was – broader across the chest. If only she could glimpse at his face. Was he in disguise?

She didn't ponder on her thoughts for longer as an almighty blast of deafening fire shot out of his wand, and swirled around the entire cave, lighting it up.

Her jaw dropped, and she pressed herself against the wall, seeing now what he was truly capable of. The fire began to spread out into every nook and cranny, and flung itself down into the cave's lake. It lit up the lake entirely to a light blue colour. She wanted to dig a hole in the cave's wall and hide in it. He glanced back at her, and began laughing. Then, she saw his face – he seemed much younger, perhaps closer to her age. His face was a lot leaner, perhaps more handsome, with high cheekbones and large lips.

His raven black hair, hung messily around his face; it seemed like he had not cut it for a year or two. He appeared like a madman, still cackling at her. The fire flew round, missing her by inches. It seemed to be searching for something. The flame of travelling fire, so close to her face, had the face of a serpent. He was mocking her. As she glanced, now terrified and devoid of any more sarcastic remarks, she began to spot little creatures, with glinting eyes and disfigured mouths. Their limbs were at a strange angle, as if broken, but they climbed down the walls for the cave, gazing intensely at both the man and woman below them. She was tempted to flee, although having no clue how to enlarge the door.

_What was it…Charms…_

She drew her eyes back up to the strange creatures that were crawling towards them. Worse now, the lake water began bubbling ferociously.

"I know you are here!" yelled Corcoran irately, who kept swirling the fire around, ignoring the events that were happening around him.

She realised now that the fire spell had a magnetic force, destroying whatever it picked up.

The ground began to shake beneath them, the cave walls crumbling, taking with them the disfigured creatures. The ground kept trembling, shaking so much that Corocran and Stella were flung to the ground. Bursting out of the bubbling water with great force like that of a geyser, a twenty foot water dragon roared, spraying water everywhere.

The fire wrapped around the dragon, but the dragon sneezed out a wave of water. Stella stared, petrified, and saw the wave of water being flung towards them. Both she and Corcoran were soon drenched, and dragged back towards the lake, as the water seeped back. The dragon let out an ear-splitting roar, angered by the interruption. Submerged into the lake water, Stella swam desperately back to the edge.

The dragon, now sensing the intruders, roared once more, and slammed a tail, extremely forcefully right down beside them. The two people were thrown out of the lake, and smashed straight into the cave wall. The dragon roared again, a little satisfactorily, amused now it had some toys to play with. Stella felt water in her lungs and began a fit of coughing. Black hair sopping, Corcoran seized her shoulders, the water droplets all over his face.

She thought for a second, he was nearly beautiful, and that Geoff Moorcraft would appear quite a doll beside him.

_Engorgio!_

Cried her mind suddenly as she remembered the engorgement charm.

The dragon made another hit at them, but being mostly unaware of its own size, missed them by a mere ten feet, and rained large rocks of the cave wall down on them. Corcoran protected them with a spell, and then sent a powerful spell at the dragon, hitting it squarely in its teal scaled chest. It reeled back, crying a terrible screech, falling into the water, drenching them once more. He was holding her tightly. His eyes were alight with abrupt excitement and power.

"I know where it is – you will get it…"

Grabbing her, he pointed to a middle patch of the cave wall, where it was greatly indented. The artefact, or whatever he wanted, had been buried deep within the impossible rock. The dragon writhed down in the lake, its screams now muffled.

"My safeguard…" he whispered manically, and pushed her forward.

Where the artefact was, or safeguard as he named it, brought a frown to her face. A safeguard for what, her mind pondered in rage, knowing he was not telling her a great many things. And it was directly above the water, where the dragon was thrashing. Stella squinted her eyes carefully, and realised it was a tiny bottle, of what seemed, potion. She felt enraged. This was no artefact, he had lied. What on earth was it? She spun back round to him.

"You're not a teacher are you? Your appearance has altered, but not by much. That is a potion, not an artefact. You are a liar."

He crossed his arms. The dragon had died its cries, and the water of the black lake was still. He laughed that horrible, high-pitched laugh.

"Oh, clever Muggle girl, managed to work out my secret! Yet what imprudence to name me a liar! You know that is an insult?"

He grabbed her harshly by the hair, tugging.

"You like to touch me quite a bit, do you not?" she seethed.

"Believe me, fool, it takes a great ounce of strength to do so, to touch your horribly soiled body, but it is the only means to get you to hold that careless tongue of yours!"

It was rather a stupid place to be arguing, she thought, if it were arguing. It was not, he thought. He smiled eerily, peering down at her.

"Yes, I am not a teacher, and this is my natural appearance. Unkempt I know that, but I have been working hard. Gaining power, once more. I do not remember my younger self being so agile…"

She had no clue what he was talking about or what he was referring to, and it unnerved her greatly, so she struggled out of his grip, and strode towards the cave wall. Grabbing the dusty black rock, she hauled herself up, and began to climb, reaching, ever so slowly, the potion. She would destroy it.

"Make a stealthy move, girl, and you wish you had never been born."

"Right now, I welcome the thought," she had grumbled in response. He ignored her, having the ears of a bat. In a matter of a few minutes, although her brow was thick was sweat, her hands slippery with the black dust of the rock, and her legs aching, she was close to smelling the potion.

The smell was very potent, very powerful and made her feel light-headed when she touched it. The potion was icy cold in her hands, and she nearly reeled back. The potion was sizzling inside, and turning back, her sneakers slipping on the rock, began to make her way back down, ever so slowly. However, the curse on the water dragon had worn off, and it burst once more out of the black lake, soaking her.

She gasped in fright, rather than the coldness of the water. The dragon immediately saw her, and smashed against the cave wall with its tail. She slipped half of the way down, scuffing her knees so that her leggings were torn open. She jumped, lastly to the edge of the lake panting. The dragon was irate, and thrashed, drenching them again and again with crumbling rocks, deafening roars and black lake water. She had her wand in her hand, and the potion in the other, trying to see the exit of the cave, trying to remember the spell again.

She began to move forward, when her heart dropped. She saw the man in black struggling to pull himself out of the cave water, his face plastered in sudden worry. However he dropped it, struggling to get out, seeing she was relenting to help him or give the potion to him. Dropping back into the water, his wand no longer in his hand, he spat at her;

"Give it to me! Give it to me now, mudblood!" She scowled at him.

"I have no reason to trust you, and never have done. To hell with you!"

She tried smashing the potion bottle into the ground, but it did not work, of course. She ran towards the door, yelling _Engorgio _at the door. He managed to pull himself out of the lake, panting hard, and with wrath. She flung it up into the air, and mustered as much voice and strength as she could, yelled the Reductor curse, and the thing blasted into fragments, flaring up in the air. The pieces fell down to the ground, and burned large holes through the cave ground. Clearly, he hadn't believed in his safeguard enough if she was to destroy it with a simple spell.

His expression was probably indescribable, but she had vanished through the door before he could react. Stella ran as fast as she could back through the stoned room.

She saw the large gaping hole above her, which led to the trapdoor. She was helpless. Gazing around, with her heart beating wildly, she saw the wall was vaguely climbable, and scratched at it, breaking her fingernails to climb up through the black tunnel.

She heard him burst through the door. Using her two legs to keep herself balanced in the vertical tunnel, she propelled herself with every bit of strength she had until she reached the trapdoor. Narrowly missing his spells, she had just touched the end of one, a burn mark seared across her calf. Tripping into the dusty, dark house, falling on the bones, she saw it was a mixture of both human bones and animal bones.

Stella hauled herself up, illuminated her wand, and burst out of the house, exhausted with physical exertion and shock. The Yorkshire moors were still awash with rain. She threw herself into the marshy land, now running for her life, certain he would kill her. She could hear the dragon's angered yells from afar. She turned back around, and heard an almighty crash. The house suddenly tumbled greatly, black smoke and rubble bursting into the rainy air, and out came the dragon, breathing fiercely. It flapped its thin great wings into the air, and took off. She saw a faint black figure behind her, running towards her. Ahead of her, she spotted another figure, now reaching a small pathway.

The figure was thankfully a wizard, bathed in burgundy robes and a pointed hat. He looked surprised at her drenched Muggle attire, bleeding fingernails and wand in hand.

"Please! Apparate me! Anywhere – Someone is after me!"

She had said it all very quickly, and harshly. The man, who was crouched over, straightened up, after seeing the man behind her – tall, dark, his cloak flying out behind him. Stop her; the dark wizard behind her began shrieking. He was getting closer very quickly, probably helped by a spell, and he shot one towards them, sending a red flare of light that narrowly missed Stella. The other wizard took hold of her arm hastily, and she was pulled away from the moors, into a tight space.

Corcoran leapt at them, snarling, and grabbed her ankle. She threw a spell at him roughly, and he was driven off swiftly. She could not catch her breath, and by the time they landed, rather awkwardly, she had not regained it.

****

Author's Note; Hello, hoped you enjoyed that – I had fun writing it. Again, thank you for reading and please, please leave me a review if you can! :) The next chapter will be named – 'The Trio's Discovery.' Your questions will be slowly revealed, I assure you. Don't fret, my dears.


	11. The Trio and Voldemort's Discovery

**Disclaimer: **The following, first short paragraph featured in Italics belongs to and was written by J.K Rowling (Deathly Hallows – The Final Hiding Place).

I changed the title to include Voldemort's name. Enjoy ;D

**THE TRIO'S AND VOLDEMORT'S DISCOVERY**

It had been several, baleful months. Stella Shelley had appeared to disappear without a trace to those witches and wizards all around her. She left Magnus Corcoran behind, soaking, irate, exhausted on the Yorkshire moors behind her, yelling in frustration.

He would kill her – if he had to scour the earth he would kill her.

He had risen, he had returned, thanks to the simpering wizard who had dared confide to him on paper. He had sucked the wizard's soul up and returned to life – to a very strange life, the life that now belonged to the year of 1994. Now it was 1997, and he had taken several years to lay out careful plans, along with discovering his safeguard that he had buried and hidden years ago – to help him, in case. Although she had jeopardised his safety and his plans somewhat, he was not entirely at a loss.

He could make something more powerful than before – with using her death, he could create the artefact that he had so wanted to create. Something to destroy the Dark Lord – for he would be a more accomplished Dark Lord, and younger still. He could feel his power running strongly through his veins.

Meanwhile, Stella for the first month had laid low with the elderly wizard who housed her with Poppy Pomfrey's friend.

After a month, she travelled back to her mother's house in north London, without any hindrances and danger. She decided the best way was to disguise herself, she dyed her hair brown, and caught a bus or coach wherever she went – avoiding contact with the magical world. In the second month, she attended her Nana's funeral. There were few people there at the crematorium.

Her mother seemed rather surprised at her disappearance, and then reappearance, with newly dyed hair, which she couldn't get used to. Her own mother had dark hair like her Nana's, and now Stella bore a striking resemblance to both of them. Her mother Questa suggested she should keep it that way, but Stella only smirked. She was, at first, reluctant to explain to her mother about everything that happened. Seeing it would be detrimental to her mother's safety, she only spoke that there was a war brewing in the wizarding world, and she was sheltering briefly at home to avoid it.

Questa was satisfied enough and was more than happy to have her daughter at home. Stella spent the days brooding; not only was she constantly fearful about Corcoran returning to kill her, but she was also terribly aggrieved about her grandmother. The last image she saw of Nana was one where the Snatchers had burst into the hospital room, slamming her Nana's bed across the room. While her mother was at work, an admin job of some sort (she never held onto her jobs for that long), and her brothers were at primary school, she drunk herself silly in the country kitchen.

She sat at the table, eyes filling with tears, heart broken, throat choked up and nose blocked.

She couldn't get a grip. Meanwhile, while she hid, she had no plan. There was nothing she could do, other than stay low hiding in her mother's house. No Pomfrey, students or her other colleagues whom she had enjoyed the company of. Not even her friends, who had all betrayed her, and had made no effort to contact her.

Hell, she might have missed even the company of that terrible man. As soon as the thought struck her, she cast it out with fierce vehemence. The days grew back into the ones she experienced soon after dropping out of Hogwarts.

Several miles away, as Harry Potter and his two friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, recovered from their rather risky trip to Gringotts Bank, the familiar ill, cleaving pain struck his head as they rested on the slippery shore of a lake.

_The scream of denial, left him as if it were a stranger's….it could not be true, it was impossible, nobody had ever known: how was it possible that the boy discovered his secret?_

Harry opened his eyes, after seeing this terrible fit of rage that the dark wizard threw, green light slashing through the air in every direction. His two friends were staring at him with great concern etched into their faces. Harry closed his eyes again, clutching his head in a fit of pain as Lord Voldemort returned to his mind once more –

_His anchors to immortality – vanquished! The cup was stolen – and yet, he knew another Horcrux had been used, but not destroyed….Or had it! Damn that meddling boy!_

If that boy was going to be the death of him….He shuddered at the thought. How many more had they found? What troubled him, however, was that he had not felt anything. Perhaps nothing yet had been destroyed.

As Harry was taken deeper into the vault of Voldemort's mind, now revealing the last Horcrux was in Hogwarts, he realised they had missed one.

It was not possible, he panicked.

The memory of Lord Voldemort's, what seemed to be, first Horcrux, flashed through as the form of a rather dirty-looking book. Dumbledore surely would have known…In his sixth year, when Professor Dumbledore had told him about Tom Riddle's life, and the myth of the Chamber of Secrets, the culprit being blamed as Hagrid, he had been told that was the year that Riddle had created his first Horcrux. But what was it? It wasn't at all clear. He struck him now, as the fit of Voldemort's rages cooled.

He was going to the Gaunt Shack firstly to check for the ring…or was he? Harry opened his eyes, hastily sat up, the sun shimmering on the lake before them, and gazed at his friends gravely. Ron's pale brow was vaguely crossed and Hermione's hair seemed bushier than usual; she seemed as if she was going to burst from the disquiet.

"He knows."

Hermione lifted a hand to her mouth, and Ron's eyes widened considerably. He told them that the dark wizard was going to check up on the other Horcruxes, but Lord Voldemort seemed to have realised the same thing as Harry had.

_One seemed to have escaped their attention, apart from Nagini, his ever-present snake….Escaped their attention a while ago…_

"When he was in my mind, I had a brief glimpse of a Horcrux we have failed to find out about…"

"Harry, Dumbledore knew about all of them! Surely he would not miss one out…" spoke Hermione fretfully.

"He's going to check on them, with the ring in mind first. I saw it in his memory, he was thinking of all of them. Nagini is his last Horcrux – but the first one he created, at school…It's in the form of a book! The only image I have of it is of him at school with it…."

Harry stopped, staring down at his hands in despair. There seemed to be something terribly wrong however. He jerked in agony again, as yet another sharp tug of pain erupted in his head –

_The first Horcrux he made…_

_It had been a mistake to trust Bellatrix…but even more so Malfoy, right now it seems. He had given his diary to Malfoy, before the demise of Potter's parents, before his very own demise….Had Malfoy followed his instructions? His plan to re-open the Chamber using the diary himself had failed because of that Potter boy…but had Malfoy continued with his plan? Or had he discarded the Horcrux?_

Harry had to lie down on the ground, in the wet, slippery grass to ease the pain of Voldemort's terrible rage that was building gradually and gradually…Again, the visions started.

_Voldemort was in front of Lucius Malfoy, who was kneeling on the ground, clothes dishevelled, hair tousled and face dirty. His face was pleading, eyes watery and his hands clasped together in front of the towering man before him._

"_What did you do with it...Malfoy? Did you forget our agreement? Our plan to re-open the chamber, despite my demise? Are you so pitiable and fallible that you could not carry it out yourself?"_

Malfoy began pleading more and more…nearly crying with fear, mumbling incomprehensible words…

"_Well, SPEAK THE TRUTH! Or I will force it from you, fool!" shrieked Voldemort, clutching his wand so forcefully that it nearly broke in two._

Blubbering, Malfoy glanced up at the terrifying man before him, with those scarlet eyes that never ceased to blaze with evanescent ire…

"_I had….sold it to Borgin and Burkes….I had not known what to do…" cried Lucius Malfoy, now grasping Voldemort's dark robes at his feet._

This was quite a blow…

His Horcruxes had been discovered by that hateful Potter boy…and now, one Horcrux lost! He demanded how long ago Lucius had cast away his previous protection to a mere shop, and Malfoy babbled it was around 1989….Anyone could have purchased the diary….Merlin let it still be there, intact! Should anyone have bought it…It would be futile…He would find it…

Harry re-counted his story to the two others, once Lord Voldemort had raided Borgin & Burkes a short while later, the old dark arts shop in Knockturn Alley, adjacent to Diagon Alley. Voldemort was not pleased in the slightest; the diary had been sold in late 1993, to man in his late thirties. Voldemort nearly tortured the shop seller in his wrath; in the end, the seller, who went over the shop records named the buyer as a Mr. Morven Higgleton_._

There was only a matter of time. Harry and the others stole away to Hogsemade under the Invisibility Cloak, attempting to get into Hogwarts before Voldemort did.

Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort was more pre-occupied with his first Horcrux and what had become of it.

He raided the_ 'Thumbbert_ _Wizards and Witches Records Office 'Since 1500' _which was located north of Diagon Alley in another alley named Thumbbert Alley. From there, Mr. Higgleton was traced to Zedlock, who had lived alone in a tiny house just outside of the village, still surrounded by wizarding folk.

He was becoming more and more apprehensive, petrified of the truth; but it appeared his fears had been confirmed. After interrogating the man's previous neighbours; Higgleton's demise was evident. The man had mysteriously died in 1994 – his remains were found buried in the house's back garden, only found just two months ago by Aurors. The perpetrator was a mysterious man – tall, dark wispy hair, pale and rather handsome, and quite young, stealing away after a bright explosion had happened in the man's house, observed by a witch across the street.

The perpetrator, then unknown by Aurors, had moved into Mr. Higgleton's house just a month after his disappearance, and fashioned himself as 'Magnus Corcoran'. Magnus Corcoran was not found on records whatsoever. There was nothing about him, other than he had been taught at Durmstrang wizarding school in Norway, and that he had filled the new position of Ancient Runes teacher as the previous, Babbling, had disappeared. Her body was found adjacent to Mr. Higgleton's in Corcoran's backyard.

However – tales of Corcoran's appearance from Hogwarts were quite different from those of his neighbours. Corcoran as teacher had aged several years in length – around that of thirty compared to twenty – which his neighbours described him being. Often they reported him having 'friends' round, though they reported these men in dark cloaks didn't seem to be friends.

_Followers….Voldemort thought. It was strangely eerie._

Comparing a staff photograph in Corcoran's house to a photograph of his younger self (he must have taken it himself), his stomach pooled with horror. That was his younger self – aged around seventeen. It was not Magnus Corcoran at all, it was Tom Riddle.

It seemed he had tried to gain influence as a teacher, although failed.

He would have grown in several years, if Mr. Higgleton had disappeared, died, in 1994. His younger, preserved self, aged in the diary at sixteen had sucked the soul and life out of Higgleton. Higgleton had succumbed to its power. He must have generated a spell to alter his age and appearance at Hogwarts when a teacher, so fools such as Hagrid or any others would not recognise him.

Gazing down at the photograph of himself fully alive, and young, and most likely powerful, Voldemort stood there in astonishment, and yet rage. Corcoran was reported to have disappeared from Hogwarts around five months ago, the same time as Mudblood Stella Shelley, the infamous witch who had dropped out of Hogwarts, on the list of Wanted.

The first thing was to punish Malfoy beyond reason.

Then – send out flyers and headlines in _The Daily Prophet _demanding Magnus Corcoran as 2nd highest on the list of Undesirables. The question was, Voldemort pondered – what was his motivation? Knowing himself, he knew immediately what the answer would be. His younger self would deem him as too weak, frail and already at loss from the trio discovering and destroying his Horcruxes.

His younger self was gathering followers, to defeat him, under a false name. Perhaps he was helping the trio destroy his Horcruxes! He never expected anything like this to happen – his own Horcrux entirely of his own power, a mind of its own! His younger self was more powerful than he could have ever dreamt of! He remembered creating a powerful potion suddenly, hidden in the depths of an ancient house in Yorkshire, soon after creating his first Horcrux. It was in case his elder self was killed and the younger, preserved self in the Horcrux was rejuvenated, with extra life and strength. But it was only at his hand!

He could only allow it – yet it had gone completely out of his hands. Mostly likely his younger self had found the safeguard and used it. He had to find Magnus Corcoran, or Tom Riddle, and the diary. He sent his Death Eaters on a fierce search.

Just after escaping capture from Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, Harry had visualised everything that Lord Voldemort had found out. He told Ron and Hermione every detail, as they sat crouching, hiding in the dark. They would firstly have to find the diary – then kill the rejuvenated Tom Riddle. However, the other Horcruxes were at stake, and would need to be got rid of before anything else, and quickly.

Thankfully, Voldemort was distracted by this Corcoran and the diary, rather than the other Horcruxes. They continued on.


	12. The Wilderness

**THE WILDERNESS **

She tried to gather herself together but couldn't. The girl had slumped into that same black hole as she had done before. She was hungover and sick to her stomach.

Her anxiety grew. She wanted to die, to have the pain end. She got up, and ran her hands and washed her face. She filled a bath full of warm water, and squirted the last of her mother's bubble bath gel into it. Undressing, Stella got into the tub after switching the radio on, playing classical music.

Her anxiety grew again once she thought of the uncertain future. She sobbed, sitting naked in the bath, as the bubbles crept around her body, clinging to the edges of her breasts and gathering at her crotch, then at her feet. She tasted her salty tears, and sat in the bath, thinking for a full half hour, before getting out. Corcoran's face kept creeping into her mind, both pleasant and unpleasant.

Her body was pink with warmth. Once she had dried herself off, and changed into her dressing gown, she saw the time was around three. She had been passed out, on the bathroom floor, all night. Why didn't her mother ask for her? Perhaps she assumed she was asleep and left her to it. Her entire body ached, and upon glancing in the mirror at her face, she saw her eyelids were pink and swollen.

Stella had thought about a lot of things in the bath, and for the first time, she realised she had regretted ever dropping out of Hogwarts. A sob erupted from her mouth again as she stared at herself in the mirror. She was pathetic. You are a pathetic human being, she thought. You are a Mudblood. She glanced over at her wand that was on top of her tiny desk in her room. She should break it into pieces, before erasing her memory about everything magical. Her room hadn't changed much over the years, it much the same as it was when she left school. What hope was there to hold onto now?

She thought back to Corcoran, and wondered with a pang why she thought at first it was pleasant. It was not pleasant at all.

Yet the word still came to her mind. Frowning, she walked downstairs, after trying desperately hard to put all her hair up into a bun; it wouldn't quite go. Stella had slumped at the kitchen table, until her mother came back home early with her brothers. She heard the front door slam, and the cries of her brothers' sound throughout the front hallway. One ran upstairs, presumably the elder, and the younger making his way towards where she was sat, his sneakers rubbing on the wooden floor.

Her mother was home surprisingly early; then, her stomach dropped. She was supposed to have picked Alex and Dane up from school. The heavy, quick steps on the floor gave indication to Stella that her mother was not pleased. Stella hadn't moved her head, as her mother and youngest brother came into the kitchen. There was a rattle of a plastic bag, and it landed nosily atop the table. She heard her mother make something for Dane, and told him shortly to go find his brother upstairs, and take his snack up for him. Dane's squeaky voice kept asking what the matter was with 'Ella', but his mother just shooed him out of the room.

"For God's sake, just look up, Stella," her mother snapped at her.

Stella, managing to listen, did so, her head aching. Her mother was seated at the table with her, her face unusually composed and not irritated as she normally would be upon finding her eldest in this state.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Stella groggily asked. Her mother shook her head, and said they let her go early, after receiving a call from the school that no one had come to collect the boys. Stella braced herself from the scolding, half closing her eyes, but her mother sat still. Her mother studied her a little, much worry written all over her face, and then delved into the plastic bag, pulling out a rather large bar of chocolate.

Stella smiled down at it.

"Thought we might have that, tonight. But you have to talk to me first."

Stella glanced away from the bar to her mother and frowned, her face querying. Her mother raised her eyebrows.

"You need to get out of this. You have to pull yourself through, I know it's difficult, but this is not the way to live."

Stella nodded, acknowledging the terrible truth. If she kept going on like this, she would be here forever, that was if Corcoran hadn't got at her yet. Her mother sighed.

"I know you can't go back to your old job, but perhaps that is good. Perhaps it's best to start afresh. Move out of your old home, in Zedfoot."

"Zedlock, Mum." Her mother waved her hand dismissively. These words seemed to encourage her quite a lot, and she saw how stupid she had been – this hole of self-pity and sorrow.

How she would hate for anyone like Elsa or Geoff to see her like this! Even Patty or Cornelius. Her mother twirled a lock of her newly dyed hair, commenting that she liked it better. Stella was unsure, of this new image, of change. She quite liked her old blonde hair, but she smirked at her mother, raising an eyebrow. Her mother looked away for a brief moment, out the window, at their poky little garden with overgrown flowers, weeds and hedges.

"You need to get help about this, Stella. It's out of my hands."

Stella nodded, understanding her mother's words, but she knew what she had to do first. Move out of her flat in Zedlock, put it up for sale. She knew her flat would be snatched up easily; such things in Zedlock were in high demand. The rest of the day passed relatively quickly, with the younger brothers behaving accordingly and without any trouble, which was unusual.

Stella and her mother sat on the sofa for the rest of the evening, consuming the chocolate, and watching the television. It was nearly like the old days. She vowed, sitting there in her nightwear, she would head early to her apartment, and collect most precious things. Anything like furniture would stay until someone bought her flat. She would go to the Wizarding Housing Agents, as they called themselves. It would have been easier to say Estate Agents, but that was far too Muggle for them.

It was extremely unnerving to walk through Zedlock, among the wizarding folk again, knowing she was on the 'Wanted List'. She had seen it herself, in the back of _The Daily Prophet. _There were hundreds of names, all Muggle-borns, and delinquents that were on the list. It was terrifying. It was becoming like a Totalitarian society. She managed to wear a dress that ran over the knees and one of her old-fashioned coats that appeared less 'Muggle like', and a hat to cover her head.

Despite her different appearance that blended in with the crowds she passed through, her heart was still pumping hard with anxiety and a tremor went through her. It took a great while to place a shrinking charm on all her things, with the few mistakes of enlarging them or shredding them to pieces. It was an antagonising day, testing her rusty abilities, the ones, she felt surprised still to know. She didn't enter the building of the Wizarding Housing Agents. It appeared to be full of tall figures in dark cloaks, towering over the rather petrified staff, who were stuttering and pointing.

She turned away sharply, and walked quickly back to her flat.

By this time, she had spent the entire day sorting out her belongings, and it had begun to rain. April showers, she thought, pushing her hat further onto her head irritably. In her irritation of the figures who brushed rudely past her in order to get out of the rain, she slammed completely into one, treading on the toes of what appeared a woman, and the latter gave a rather loud squeak of astonishment. A man's firm hand suddenly grasped Stella's upper arm, and pulled her away roughly, too roughly for her liking.

"Watch where you're going!" snapped the man, annoying Stella who attempted to storm off in a hurry, not wanting to cause a raucous, but a familiar voice called out her name, to her back.

Stella's heart dropped into her stomach as she knew the voice, and turned around reluctantly. Elsa was stood there; dressed in an exotic hat with tail feathers of a peacock and fashioned in a bright turquoise coat that could be named as somewhat vulgar. On her arm, was the famous Healer she married, tall, tanned skin, impeccable in every way, yet his nose wrinkled slightly in a sneer.

"I haven't seen you around here for ages! Where have you been?"

Hiding, you moron, Stella yelled in her head, raising her eyebrow, wondering if her ex-friend who betrayed her ever glanced in the newspapers or paid attention to anything other than herself.

"I'm moving out," she replied shortly, grinding her jaw unknowingly. Elsa's face fell exceedingly.

She didn't even ask why Stella was not at work. Perhaps she was sat in her flat all day, over these past months, with no job, crying over Geoff. Perhaps that was what Elsa expected. Elsa's husband tugged at her arm impatiently, giving Stella a false smile.

His wife batted him away politely.

"Why not come with us for a quick drink? Quick catch-up?" suggested Elsa, a contrite smile on her face.

Stella paused for a while, wondering the possible reason for this enquiry, this introduction to a drink, a social practise? Stella knew there was something sinister going on in any case, for her ex-friend had neglected to introduce her husband, and did not speak to her until they were fully in the bar. Stella followed them, and accepted out of morbid curiosity than anything, knowing this was not going to promote any good feeling.

Still, her feet moved forward behind them, as Elsa cackled in front of her, tugging on her husband's arm so tightly so seemed desperate. The old Elsa Stella had known at school was long gone.

"Let me buy you a drink!" chirped Elsa happily, opening her rather unsavoury designed crocodile bag with impossible long painted nails and drew out a rather expensive looking purse. Stella couldn't help but watch with her mouth open, as she stood at the rather dark bar. It was a place she hadn't heard of before, at the end of Zedlock, filled with twinkling lanterns that floated in each corner of their own accord and changed colours every other five minutes.

Everyone inside was young, and the witches who served at the bar wore rather revealing outfits and with heavily painted made up faces. The place was insufferably heaving with haughtiness. Stella glanced down, thanking Elsa rather begrudgingly, knowing it was not out of kindness; Elsa was patronising her, and nevertheless, using her husband's money. She wasn't wasting anything, except perhaps, her good will. The drink was more like a shot. Elsa was watching Stella survey it with disgust, knowing perfectly well that Stella would rather have a pint or gin in her hand.

"It's to be drunk extremely slowly, it's the most powerful they have. Like swallowing fire," gabbled Elsa happily, raising her drawn-in eyebrows.

Her husband ordered a rather masculine pint, though not beer of course. Everything about the situation was distasteful. It grew even more so, when Stella's chest clenched painfully, and her eyes wavered suddenly. Geoff approached them, hardly changed, except his hair was perhaps a little longer, exacerbating the childishness of his round face. Geoff seemed to be in conversation with a dark haired woman, and Patty with Cornelius who sauntered up. Cornelius cackled like a hyena when he saw Stella.

"Oh Stella, I thought you'd given up, yet here you are with the most powerful drink. And new hair! I like it. New change! That - 'wash the man out of your hair' – all that business, eh?" he taunted obnoxiously.

His nose was so screwed up with sneer that Stella imagined briefly it would transform into that of a pig's. Stella stared at Patty until the girl had stopped cackling with laughter. Geoff glanced at Stella, awkwardly, then looked quickly away again. Stella sighed. She grabbed the drink, poured it down her throat. She heard a small gasp from Elsa. Her throat immediately felt like it had experienced a small atom bomb explosion; then everything rushed up to her head, and her vision clouded over.

However, she had kept herself steady, holding tightly onto the side of the bar. The feeling quickly went as it came.

"Here we go with Stella's drunken antics once more…you don't change do you?" scoffed Patty, folding her arms.

"It's not unanticipated, to be frank," Cornelius made a great show of sighing, as if she was his petty teenage daughter. "One can only speculate that one does it to drown out bitter disappointments, I'm not only talking about school…"

His words were like arrows from a tightly strung bow; the arrows were impossible to wrench from the body.

"One can speculate that you make rather large assumptions from such a small mind, only to be converted even lower by that big mouth of yours."

She felt like taking the glass tightly in her hand, walking over to Cornelius and smashing over his bald head. Still, his expression was exactly mirrored the same, even if she hadn't. So Geoff had broken up with her – now she had no partner did that make her less as a person? Less happy and fulfilled? They all stared at her, with un-renewed hostility, apart from Elsa, who appeared most uncomfortable.

Her husband did the hostile stares on her part. Stella gave them all a last look, before grabbing her hat and walking away from the bar, trying not to let the tears sting her eyes. She heard Elsa's voice calling her softly from behind. She only turned round, hoping to do so for the last time, staring at Elsa with loathing.

"I shouldn't be here. You and your friends have made me feel lower than you could possibly imagine. Are you satisfied now?"

Elsa appeared absolutely wretched, her expensive clothes now looking drab on her. As Stella glared at her ex-friend, her face softened, and she realised something. She may have had past regrets, past unhappiness and was unhappy now; but Elsa would forever remain as so. She would forever be a people-pleaser, a narcissist, haughty and always striving for a glamorous lifestyle, excluding one of intelligence and actually living life. No, to her, her own insecurity was masked by all this false cover-ups; her immaculate husband, her old friends whom she clung to, her money and her beauty.

It was all so false, she was desperately trying to out mask her own insecurity. Elsa Neave still stood there, facing Stella, and swallowed.

"People will always flock to you like pigeons to breadcrumbs," Stella spoke before Elsa could open her mouth and say she was sorry. Stella simply did not want to hear it. "But that is only because you're giving them that false mask of happiness, mirroring their own desperation. You've just hopped on the bandwagon like everyone else and their insecurities. You need a relationship to stay happy – your own insecurity is only numbed by rubbing it in my face. I refuse to be a part of it."

She turned away quickly, opened the bar door, and stepped out into the rain. It was raining harder than it was earlier on. Her heart had pounded fiercely when she spoke it, and she ran all the way back to her apartment, for fear of Elsa calling for her husband and friends, making a show of everything. It took a modicum of calm to reach her eventually and simmer down her anxiety.

She realised she no longer was attracted to Geoff. She was still hurt, and the healing time would take a long while, but thank Merlin. She was no longer attracted.

As she reached the top of her flat, she noticed something was terribly off. Firstly, the candles in the hallway had been extinguished, and scattered across the floor. The runway carpet was snagged and pulled up. She glanced in apprehension around at the hallway, and when reaching her door, found the door had been blasted in. A large scorch mark was in the middle of the door, indicating that a spell had been fired.

Entering quickly, she saw that her flat had been ransacked. Whatever she had not taken home yet (before shrinking first) was tipped over, strewn across the floor or smashed into pieces. Stepping over the devastation, she crunched on something particular and saw it was a photograph frame, one containing her and her Nana, when she was aged just around four. Anger, instead of the usual tears flew to her face, and furrowed her brow.

She could guess exactly who was after her – either the Snatchers or Death Eaters, or the Corcoran man. Screwing her fists, she tidied some things away with her wand. Some left whatever heavy furniture, such as the table and her bed, on its sides.

Stepping out into the corridor again, she saw that her neighbour's door on her left, Margaret Ashaolt's door, too had been blasted open. Inside was fairly dark, although a light fixture kept swinging to and fro of its own accord. Slumped near the window at the far side of the room, lay a lump, a figure, which probably belonged to Margaret. Stella didn't presume the woman to be alive.

Gasping, she turned back, and grabbed whatever she could. She saw that some things in her flat had been taken; her birth certificate, and her school records. She closed the door, and was about to run down the hallway, when the door on the right of hers whooshed open, startling her. It was her other elderly neighbour, Zacharias Winters. He beckoned her in, and she did so, breathing heavily. His flat was shrouded in darkness.

"I heard those dark wizards, or those brutes show no mercy in that flat of yours. They were most likely Snatchers," he whispered, ever so silently that he was nearly inaudible.

"I know, I think Madge is dead," Stella replied.

Zach stayed silent for a moment, and was about to open his mouth again, when they heard further thuds, come from nowhere in particular. Stella turned around, looking at the closed door. The thuds were growing louder – she could hear whoever it was, coming up the stairs. Zach appeared very old and frail in the darkness.

"They're not Snatchers, they're associates of the man who is trying to kill me," she whispered frantically. Zach laughed a little.

"In all my years, I have never heard anything so ridiculous. Who, in the wide world, would kill someone such as you, Stella?" She had to smile in spite of everything. She took his frail hand and squeezed it tight.

"Take me home," she spoke, and told him the area where her mother lived.

Thankfully, he knew the area, and they whisked out of the air before the thuds and bangs became too close. When they arrived, just a road away from her mother's house, she told him to not go back to his apartment. Listening to her carefully, he told her his sister lived around these parts. Before she could warn any more, a loud pop resonated, and he vanished. Stella sprinted back home to find her mother and brothers safely nestled on the sofa, laughing at some programme on the television.

"Stella! You're awfully late. What took you so long?"

Stella walked into the room with a vacant expression. She asked her brothers she had large chocolate bars waiting for them upstairs, and they jumped off the sofa without another word, fighting each other to the stairs. Stella sat down next to Questa and told her everything. Her mother would need to go live with their father for a few days in Wiltshire with the boys.

***

It was a couple of days later. Stella knew it was ridiculous to return to Zedlock, and her flat, but she was sure that once they had looked there, they wouldn't look again. It really was against her own will, for the pain seemed to hit her every time she stepped into the village.

Her mother had been extremely adamant to go and stay with their father in Wiltshire. It wasn't surprising. Stella hadn't heard from the man in the past seven months, and Merlin knows what he was doing now. Instead, Questa took the boys to stay with a friend in Southern London. Even so, she seemed to understand what Stella had told her, despite the father being mentioned. She had spent most of the day cleaning up her little flat. She might have been terribly upset, but she wasn't, because she was moving out.

It was end of an era; she couldn't possibly be in Zedlock anymore. Thank Merlin, she thought, that the ordeal between her, Elsa and Geoff hadn't happened at school. She would not be able to escape it. That was a grim thought, and it made her somewhat brighter to think she was free. She was free of them at last, free of Geoff, although the pain still stung somewhat. She ventured outside when it grew a little darker, the time was around five o'clock. She headed outside of Zedlock to find a pay phone to phone her mother and tell her everything was packed and ready to go.

She'd leave the furniture there. She sighed, and slammed the phone back on its hook, as the sky above her grew cloudier and darker. Turning back around, she was met immediately by a rather beautiful woman with blonde hair and red lips, the colour of blood. She was dressed in a faux-fur coat with a high collar, and all that hair was bundled on the top of her head. Stella stood there watching her, wondering what this Hollywood starlet wanted, because the woman looked enquiring, as if she was about to speak.

It appeared the woman was surveying her, checking her over, making Stella uneasy. She then pulled a terrific smile, giving Stella a glimpse of pearly white teeth. Stella felt quite dull in comparison, with her denim jacket, leggings and a long knitted jumper, her permed hair wild.

"Stella Shelley?" the woman asked, although she needn't ask, she seemed quite certain, her voice low and smooth. Stella raised an eyebrow, folding her arms.

"Who wants to know?" The woman extended a leather gloved hand, and Stella shook it firmly, keeping eye contact all the time.

"Annabelle Germaine," the woman answered. "I'd like to invite you to dinner at Straus and Dolcher in Diagon Alley."

The most expensive, elegant wizarding restaurant that is around, thought Stella. What kind of time is this for frivolous luxuries? Who was she invited by? This person who had invited was going to pay? She hoped so, not even a month's wages would pay for a three-course meal and drinks.

"Who has invited me? I don't know who you are!" she said, rather snappily. The woman simply smiled, raising her eyebrows. That smile from the blood red lips was somewhat unnerving.

"An old school friend."

It suddenly clicked for Stella, who knew right away it was Elsa Neave, trying to win her over. She boiled deep down, but thought this was an ideal opportunity to brush up beautifully (she suspected Geoff might be there, Elsa would be cruel) and give them all a piece of her mind. For the third time, she thought, how many times do I need to tell them, before they will get the message? The woman told her she should come along now, but Stella, protesting, said she had to collect all her packed bags at her apartment back in Zedlock.

She would need to change, she protested. The woman just smiled that disturbing smile again, and from her tiny shiny bag, using a summoning charm and brought out a dress, of a deep mauve colour. Not exactly Stella's choice, but she accepted it. The woman told her she could 'mind' about her 'things later.'

Stella changed in a nearby Muggle toilet, feeling foolish when she stepped out in the grimy toilets, seeing her reflection. Her cheeks were red from (probably) agitation, and the dress clung to her a little too tightly, emphasising her breasts in a way she did not like. It came to her knees, and as she walked out, it was terribly constricting. It made her feel like she wanted to rip the thing off and run away naked, screaming.

Annabelle's face fell when Stella shoved her denim jacket on, and as she was about to protest, Stella held her hand up, forcing her to be quiet. The woman appeared most disgruntled, and did not speak to her properly for the rest of the way, as they walked the short journey to Diagon Alley. A couple of wolf whistles sounded from the other side of the street over the London traffic; some Muggle men were outside a pub, having a smoke.

The woman blindly ignored them, and Stella gave a thumbs up to them, making them cheer even more.

"Do not encourage those filthy Muggles!" the woman hissed, most sinisterly.

Stella, taken aback, did nothing more, as they passed through the _Leaky Cauldron. _Diagon Alley was eerily quiet, and only a few dark figures passed by them. The old homeless men that sometimes sat outside the shops were no longer there. The restaurant was glamorous both on the outside, as on the in. The two women walked through a large, circular marble entrance hall, flanked by numerous paintings and a humongous chandelier. The woman spoke little words to the host, who led them through a wood panelled room, which was the main dining area. Stella was too anxious to take any notice of the interior; in fact she thought it was all rather pompous. People stared at her when she walked in; most likely it was her jacket that was drawing attention.

They walked, for what seemed, several metres across the huge dining area, which was carpeted in red and decorated with gold borders. The host finally came to a stop at a booth, after they passed a large plant that towered over them. When Stella, finally looking up from the ground, realised something was terribly wrong. She shrugged out of her jacket awkwardly, giving to the host who walked away with it. The woman was staring at her, waiting for her response. Stella's legs turned extremely weak as she noticed; indeed it was not Elsa Geoff and Co. or anyone else of that kind.

Instead, were two men; the first, a beefy man with whiskers who barely fitted into his tight suit, the other, Magnus Corcoran. He put a false smile on, and held out his hand to the seat in the booth next to him, a ring on one finger. The woman sat down next to the other man, smiling accordingly. That woman…seethed Stella, who still was staring deep into Corcoran, her heart dropping with the same impact as an avalanche.

He was his younger self, around her age, she did not care to ask how old. He had cleaned up quite well, his hair being trimmed considerably, swept to the side, a side parting visible. He looked immaculate, in what, she saw, was a rather Muggle-like grey suit.

"Come, sit!" he urged, waving his hand at her.

He made a great show of looking at her up and down; she had a nasty feeling that he was the one who had picked this dress out for her; one that could make her feel as uncomfortable as ever. She slipped into the booth beside him, rather awkwardly, knocking the table a little and rattling the cutlery. The dress was killing her. They all surveyed her, the woman vacantly, the man discordantly and Corcoran patronisingly. His dark eyes were glittering maliciously.

Stella's heart began to pound so vigorously that for a spare moment she thought perhaps they would have noticed it against the dress. She nearly fainted with shock when she realised her wand, was back in her denim jacket, which had been taken away by the host.

"So this is the famous Shelley is it?" the man started, glaring at her, while at the same time pulling a most disturbing smile. Stella didn't move, looking at Corcoran, for his reaction.

"Yes, the famous mudblood drop-out that we all so know and love. I believe she is working now at the _very_ school she dropped out of! How bizarre….does it not provoke unbearable memories, Shelley? Do not the other, far superior students make you feel like a dunce among them?"

Stella gritted her teeth. If he carried on this charade, she would eventually become more angry than frightened. Her legs were shaking, and she drove them deeper into the carpet to stop. Her hands were clammy in her lap. The other two were waiting for her response.

"No matter how superior you consider your opinions to be, Corcoran, you'll find it very unsavoury to be talking about the feelings of one whom you have neither clue nor knowledge about. Considering your nature, typically that of your physical behaviour, I can guess that clearly you do not have the capacity to engage in one's emotional and sentimental history. In fact, you probably could not distinguish between the two, for you lack any sensitivity, and therefore visual imagination."

She had the quote of poet Edward. J O'Brien in her mind at that point. Annabelle Germaine gaped at her, and the other man frowned deeply. Corcoran seemed rather surprised at her verbal assault, and a most brief, dark flicker ran through his expression and was gone in an instant. He then burst out laughing, clapping his hands, trying to make a mockery of her, but she knew she had out done him.

"Well then, mudblood, you have me at a loss!" He quipped, still cackling. The other man pulled a small smirk.

"It's false; she is more intelligent than they say." She made a great show of sighing.

"That insult is getting a little old now."

Corcoran stopped laughing and snapped his head at her. They all fell silent when the waiter came along with a bottle of red wine, showed it to Annabelle who flippantly waved at it, and the waiter set it down, rushing away. Corcoran snatched the bottle over and poured a small glass for each of them, giving nothing to Stella. She frowned, and was about to reach across to fill her own glass, when Corcoran chuckled, and pushed the bottle, much to her humiliation, out of her reach, near where Annabelle was sitting.

"Oh do stop, Magnus, you're embarrassing the poor child!" spoke Annabelle, rolling her eyes. Corcoran smirked at her.

"I think you could do without it." Stella, for the first time in a long time, felt her cheeks go red, and it was with complete discomfiture, as they all sussed her out, staring deep into her reddened face. Corcoran's stare was the most penetrating.

"Oh? You think you ought to take all your words back about my lack of insight about your history? Your rather pathetic, emotional history, may I add? I might lack anything more that adheres to the 'sensitive' attribute, but that doesn't hinder me. I don't take well with sympathy and pathetic, snivelling emotions. Lest of all, your simpering emotions that combined with alcohol, your real love pursuit. The last one, failed, did it not?" There were tears now, clinging to her eyes, but she stared at him with utter loathing, trying not to waver. She held the tears desperately in, and they were clouding her vision, causing the sneering face of Corcoran to smudge slightly.

That confidence she had a couple of days ago was ebbing away quickly.

Corcoran turned away from her to talk to the others. They all sat there, talking intensely, as if she had not arrived at all, or existed. They still continued with their chatter until the waiter came over with the menus. Corcoran patronisingly chose her starter, a soup, and the rest of them had something different. She wasn't stupid like they thought so. She listened to each word they spoke; Corcoran was talking to them about a business – a business being run over in Russia, out in the wilderness.

What they required, was out in this vast wasteland of snow and mountains. To her, however, it did not sound like a business at all – it was some sort of secret base, and she could only guess easily what it was for. This man seemed much of the 'more talk, less action' kind. She knew this secret base was for acquiring certain powers, of a dark kind, powerful enough to feat Lord Voldemort. Russia was the perfect place – out of the way of the Death Eaters. If Corcoran was plotting against the dark wizard – surely the Death Eaters would be on his tail? She sipped at her insipid soup, trying to think of a plan.

Judging by the way they were talking and eating, and slipping their wine slowly, they were going to be here for a while. She could easily say she needed the bathroom – and work an escape route there. She'd have to find her denim jacket firstly. While deep in her thoughts, slurping at the surprisingly delicious butternut squash soup, she felt a certain warmth on her right leg in all of a sudden. She jolted slightly, noticing that none of the three people sitting with her had realised her startle.

She realised it was Corcoran's hand that was stroking her leg, his fingers making oddly intimate circles, around and around on her bare skin. She wanted to break his fingers off, but knew it was impossible. He had finished his meal, and sat there, smirking at the woman, pretending to be deep in their conversation. The worst thing was that it stirred great unrest in the pool of Stella's stomach, and it was anything but repulsion. Perhaps it was because it felt like a random hand, and she could not see it was his. She wrinkled her nose at him, staring at his sleek hair that caught the light. That ugly ring on his finger. A shudder cascaded down her spine.

The waiter came back to take their plates, and Corcoran finally turned to her, smiling briefly and falsely, refilling her glass with water. He turned back to engage in more conversation, before pushing his hand right up the inside of her thigh, very gently. She had to suck in a great, sharp breath, and was ashamed to say that it was seducing her. Another blush swept over her cheeks. Stella was the not the blushing type, and this man had caused her to blush twice in one evening.

It took everything she had inside not to push his hand roughly, or pinch the skin at the top of his hand extremely hard. He kept stroking her thigh in a certain motion. Incredibly, her dress had been pulled all the way up by his ministrations. She took the elegant folded napkin she had forgotten to place on her lap, and covered her bare thighs, before anyone would notice. If the other people in the restaurant had noticed, it would be alright to her, it seemed to be Annabelle's piercing stare and the other wizard's hostile one that made her feel most uncomfortable.

They ordered the second meal, Corcoran doing the same for her. She would put up with pasta, while the rest of them had steak; apart from Annabelle who had ordered something simpering and meek. Stella, more than anything, longed for a steak. She forced a gasp down her throat when the tips of his fingers brushed against the hemline of her knickers. Hastily, she grabbed a steak knife beside her plate she would not be using, and held it beside her leg tightly.

His fingers clenched, and he pulled a single hair out from under her pants, making her jump in pain. If it had been anyone else, (and she tried desperately with all her heart not to think of Geoff) she might have regarded this as strangely erotic. She jumped, pushing the table forward, rattling the plates, and causing Corcoran to gasp aloud with derisive laughter. Her eyes watered from the pain.

"I feel our guest is becoming rather jaded already, like a bird in a cage," commented the other wizard, taking a sip of his wine.

She just narrowed her eyes, and forced her dress back down, hating it dreadfully. They ate their meals heartily, and when they waited again for the waiter to take their meals away and bring the dessert menu, he put his hand back on her leg. Flaring up with anger, she grabbed the steak knife, and was about to plunge it deep into his hand when the waiter, just at that moment, took the plates away, and then gave them the menus. Corcoran seemed to figure out what she was planning, and crushed her hand extremely hard.

She held on, unrelenting, staring at him with a stone-like expression. He let go, and instead pinched her thigh, that made her smart with tears once more. She dropped the knife, and it clattered to the ground. The others stared at her briefly, as if she was a clumsy child, and Corcoran made a great show of rolling his eyes and picking it up for her.

They began to eat their desserts when an unearthly silence fell over the room. Stella glanced up, noticing immediately. The only three at the table did not notice until there were yells and screams that came from the other side of the huge room. Tables and chairs were being blasted apart; the wall behind the now approaching dark figures was reduced to rubble with a tremendous clang.

Upon seeing their target, the table Stella and Corcoran were sat at blew off the ground and landed several feet away. Annabelle and the other man sprang to their feet, defending themselves, and presumably Corcoran. Stella flung herself onto the ground, crawling hastily away from Corcoran, round the abandoned or overturned tables, until she reached the small cloakroom a few metres away. Not daring to turn back, she stood up and frantically sifted her hand through all the coats in frustration.

She began pulling bundles of them out; unable to find her own that contained her wand. Just when she found it, tearing it off the hanger, the door blasted open, and a Death Eater, she supposed, stood there, and fired a spell at her. She ducked, guessing that her simple defective spell wouldn't have worked; it was likely dark magic. The wizard was unrelenting. She had only managed to dodge one more time, before she was hit, and sent flying back into the back of the cloakroom, her back catching on the wheels of the coat rail. The wizard, sensing she was unconscious, strode over to her confidently.

Whisking her wand out at the last possible minute, she yelled _Stupefy _at the wizard, and he was cast out of the cloakroom, his body landing several feet away.

Getting up painfully, she took out of the room, shoving her denim jacket. The restaurant was in chaos. She saw quite a few bodies that lay along the carpeted floor, she wasn't sure if they were dead or just unconscious. Stella had been very close to escaping to freedom, when someone tackled her to the marble floor of the entrance doorway. Someone had put all their heavy weight onto her, and her arms caught hard on the ground. Either Corcoran or Death Eater.

She heard the sudden yells of _There he is! _and scuffles of shoes. She was apparated away before anything else could happen.


	13. Russia

**Author's Note; **I would just like to thank FullMoonSwan for reviewing and sticking with the story! :) This story isn't getting many reviews in general, so I'm not sure where I'm going with it, but will try my best to finish it! Maybe. Haha.

**Warning**; if you're not too keen with vivid descriptions of bloody injuries, perhaps skim read, or sing a happy tune and think of rainbows when you're reading. Don't say I didn't warn you! (This wasn't rated M for nothing)

**Disclaimer; **I'll reiterate that I'm not making a profit out of this, that I'm doing this purely for my own pleasure (and others on here) and that Harry Potter completely belongs to the lovely J.K Rowling.

**RUSSIA**

They were whisked into a space of moving time, seconds apart from landing together in a desolate land, with nothing about them.

It took mere seconds for Stella to realise what had happened, and that the hand of Magnus Corcoran, whom she learned to intensely dislike, had his white, spider-like fingers wrapped tightly around her ankle. She had never apparated in her life, and probably wished to do so, but in those seconds of being apparated with someone, she closed her eyes tightly, and envisaged somewhere she thought would be safest, away from anyone she knew.

Away from anything, so if either she or Corcoran pulled the snuff on each other, no one's prying eyes would witness their demise. Everything had happened in microseconds, she was not sure if she had even done it. Seemingly, she had done so, dragging him with her – yet her location was far off the mark, and not where she had envisaged.

However, an indescribable agonising pain wrenched at her left lower leg, as if the skin had been pulled off. She found Corcoran's presence beside her, and she was being whisked away from the location she had thought of.

When they landed, the temperature of the air was ice cold. It took a fair while for Stella to regain her senses and realise where she was, and what had happened. She didn't bother worrying about Corcoran for the minute; the ghastly pain returned to her senses once more, and she began shaking uncontrollably. Opening her eyes wide, she was blinded instantly; she began to realise she was within a snowy forest, the wind fairly calm, with droplets of snow falling from the unbelievably tall pine trees.

She was rested in a large patch of snow, as if sat in an armchair. Her body was freezing over; she was still dressed in that ridiculous outfit, and she seemed to have lost one shoe in the apparition struggle. Then, she slowly began to realise the impact of the struggle – and why her vision danced in front of her, and her body began to hyperventilate. There were vast, unnatural amounts of bright, terrifying blood leaking into the pure white snow, encasing her entire left leg in some sort of blood bath.

She had to stare at it for a fair while before discovering what exactly had happened. It was abhorrent.

The skin that used to belong to her left shin was no longer there and left absolutely nothing but shiny muscle and leaking, scarlet blood, continuing to seep out at an alarming rate. Stella lay quickly back down in the snow, gasping with horror and cold, the moisture from the snow seeping through her hair and chilling her skull.

She began weeping with pain and fear, her entire body vibrating through and through. She wanted to shout, yell out for help, completing forgetting about the ordeal before, and where Corcoran was.

He had grabbed her – taken her to a new location.

She had been splinched, probably her own fault, although she wanted to see Corcoran as the guilty party. It had happened in the blink of an eye. She lay there for what seemed an eternity, crying and shaking in agony, not daring to look at her leg again from fear, and the snow from above soaking her. She couldn't feel any part of her body now, apart from the bleeding leg.

She would surely die from blood loss. It had always been in her nature to look after herself, heal others, and heal to the best of her ability. The survival instinct in her was incredibly strong. But she was shocked and numb beyond relief, completely stunned by the recent turn of events. She could not possibly heal herself. The pain was too great for her to concentrate – and this dreadful snow! Why was there snow? Where on earth was she?

Stella wanted to scream for help, but she found she could not use her voice. Her vision suddenly began to go fuzzy, the trees dancing, and her hearing began to fade. She was about to fade into unconsciousness. She needed blood to get to her head. What was left of her hearing proved to be useful, although futile for her rescue. Turning her head slowly to her left, the snow seeping further into her hair, and her ear, she saw three hooded dark figures with wands at the ready.

They were pointing, and suddenly yelling. One threw a spell, right over her head, and she realised they were not aiming for her. She began calling for help.

"Help…."

But her voice was too weak, too congested and croaky. Not that those figures would help her – in fact they assumed immediately that she was dead, and headed for the other figure, who had now stooped over the dead girl. Stella met a handful of snow to the face, as a polished shoe shuffled in the snow next to her. Feeling incredibly weak, and becoming close to death, Stella recognised the attractive stranger as Corcoran. She would have normally thrashed and made a run for it – now she could not even register why her normal behaviour would have been irrational.

Corcoran fended off the hooded figures for a few minutes, and they quietened down. She guessed that was not the last of them. Corcoran's tall figure, bent down to her, eyes flickering towards her splinched leg, rather indifferently, perhaps irritably.

"I should leave you here, mudblood, for your pathetic attempt to escape…" he snarled at her.

She just stared at him, unable to move, or speak a single word, only blinking, although that was becoming rather laboured. He was staring at her hard, as if fighting an eternal struggle.

_Well, you did say you needed a simpleton to do your dirty work…Although I'm fairly sure simpletons are not that hard to find._

Stella was rather amazed she could keep her wit while slowly her life was being degraded. All the blood that lay in the snow was simultaneously magnificent and horrific. It looked like some hunter had drained its catch of its blood for the day before cooking it. Corcoran didn't waste much time.

He levitated her with the speed and agility of a cheetah, and he held onto her lightly, as he made for the first thing he saw – an old, wooden hut, several metres away. He held off the Death Eaters for as long as he could, successfully killing one. He was swift. He cast powerful disillusionment charms on himself and the mudblood, before a concealment charm around the area of the hut.

The Death Eaters grew confused, and wandered around, throwing the odd spell here and there in order to catch them out. However, their spells were useless, against Corcoran's strange, powerful magic. Despite their failure at finding their intended targets, they put their wands together, and flashed a large bright light right into the sky, beyond the trees. The light soon came crashing back down, and spread throughout the entire area, a torrent of wind rushing past them.

Corcoran was at the foot of the wooden Chalet-like hut when he realised what had just happened. He had escaped his capture, but he was stranded with this pitiful woman, and without magic. They had placed, much to his utter vexation, a magical detection charm; likely to last around several months.

They were, plainly stated, stranded. Despite his loathing towards the bleeding thing on the ground before him, he liked to play with her – and needed some guinea pig for his experiments. He may have lost his powerful safeguard in the cave due to that _bitch, _but he knew, in the surrounding area where he set up camp for his secret base, he could build an army against Lord Voldemort, who was weakening, he thought.

He was young, and sturdy – he could, with this new age, this 1990's decade, discover magic he, or anyone had never discovered before.

Dark Magic. There were just outside a town named Magadan, in the wilderness of Russia. He had been foolish to land here with the mudblood – now the Death Eaters were on his tail, although thankfully he didn't think they know about his base. He knew somewhere, within this forest, was an artefact.

No, little Shelley, he thought, gazing down at the Muggle whom he had dropped into the entrance of the hut, I was not lying, there is an artefact, and I need it.

He surveyed her. She had indeed lost a great amount of blood, and judging by her skin tone, would not fair for much longer.

She was whey-faced from the ordeal. He could see her blonde roots beginning to show through in her hair. Wrinkling his nose, he decided to let her bleed out just a little more, for punishment, while he cast great protective charms around the little hut they had escaped to. The log cabin, to his utter disgust, belonged to Muggles. He had a glimpse of a Toyota truck from behind the hut, beside piles of firewood and logs.

When he returned, his dark robes and hair flecked with white little flecks of snow, Stella nearly appeared dead. Lazily, he bent down beside her, and picked out a tiny vial from a pouch in his suit-jacket pocket from underneath his robes. Essence of Dittany. He poured the entire vial on her leg, and immediately the skin began to mend itself, although it took longer than usual.

He pulled out a Reviving Draft, roughly tipped her head back, and poured it down her throat. She didn't sir for several minutes, her features still waxen. He felt her pulse; it was extremely low. He drew his hand away quickly as if he had touched a hot stove. He couldn't understand why he had just saved this mudblood's life; sure, she was a mere pawn in his game, but there were other, useless pawns.

He hated to admit anything; any kind of weakness, but being alone in a wilderness he was unfamiliar with in a Muggle's residence proved to be somewhat baffling and uncertain for him. He did not want to say he was fearful – he was not. His base was a short while from here, but it was undetectable in this forest, this endless forest, where these Death Eaters were on the prowl for him, and most likely the mudblood fool.

He did not want to focus on negativity, but it seemed like everything had gone wrong. How long would they be stranded out in this place, with no magic?

He was infuriated, enraged even, and strode away from the lying body on the wooden floor. He wanted to kill her. Kill something. His frustration had built up in him for too long. His followers, would they search for him? He wondered what had happened to Annabelle Germaine and Rufus Harcourt.

The hut was fairly small.

They were in a large room, the living room, and separate kitchen over at the back, separated by large counter surfaces. He saw a couple of wooden smallish doors on either side of the kitchen space, presumably leading to either a bathroom or bedroom. He did not bother to analyse the room very well; it belonged to Muggles, and that was enough to hear. He felt like he was in a cage, imprisoned, like a bird without wings. He could not perform magic! Everything had gone so terribly wrong, and yet there was nothing or anyone to blame….

Perhaps the mudblood. If she had not fooled around and tried to apparate away, then the Death Eaters would have not found them so easily. He would have whisked them away quickly in a blink of an eye, and be untraceable. But she….She did not learn. She needed to know her place.

The exhausting amount of times he had threatened her, yet she still did not relent! He stormed across the living space, and burst through the door at the back. It was a very large bedroom, mainly taken up by a supremely large bed. A little door on his left was most likely a bathroom. He stood by the window, thinking, pondering. There was a fireplace opposite the bed which faced the exits of the room. He took out his wand automatically, and then, frowning greatly, realised he could not.

His fists scrunched up extremely tightly, and he let out a fierce growl. He began to destroy the room around him, indifferent to the damage he caused. Books, photograph frames, frames hung on the wall, ornaments and vases that held dead flowers were strewn and smashed all over the wooden, creaking floor. He destroyed the room, and all its contents, leaving havoc everywhere. Feathers from the pillows were in every corner. The bedsheets were ripped from the bed. A dressing table was toppled over, the mirror broken into fragments over the floors, entwined with feathers and book pages. Never did he like weakness, and helplessness.

He only liked desolation when it suited him. It didn't suit him now.

***

When Stella finally woke from her deep slumber, the painful realisation of the past events which had occurred recently hit her like a giant, crashing wave to a coastal wall.

Her entire body took on a strange ache, which she had never felt before, and then remembered the indescribable pain she had gone through – the stupidity of trying to apparate! Yet it was _his _fault also, he had taken her from one place to another hastily, landing here. Surely he had been the cause of it. She was still in the ridiculous dress, which was spattered with dirt, grime and her blood. There was blood that had soaked the light wooden floor, now a dull brownish colour.

She took a look at her leg, which had healed up nice and easy, but there was a terrible scar from where the skin had sowed itself up again. He had not healed her correctly, and left an ugly scar. There was a dull ache in the wounded leg, and hauling herself up, gasping a little, she stumbled towards the kitchen, a hungry ache in her belly. She would have to change out of the ghastly dress which she had so come to hate. She walked behind the counters, and found a little table, with discarded pieces of paper, and other assortments on it, including a packet of menthol cigarettes. The fruit was rotting in the bowl on the table.

The owners, non-magical, she studied, had been away for a long period of time.

It seemed like they were not coming back, or had fled. Why would they flee? She realised, again, she was no longer in Britain. He had taken her somewhere else. Was it Russia, where his base was? It was freezing inside. Her breath came out large quantities of water vapour, swirling in the air. She took out a cigarette from the packet. She searched in the cupboards, relieved at finding in-date cans of food.

No lighters or matches. She ignited the gas stove, and lit her cigarette there. It was the fourth try that it had lit properly. Unable to stand up for very long, she slumped into the chipped wooden chair beside the table, and smoked. She saw a Norwegian-style looking throw on the back of another chair at the table, and drew it round her shoulders after taking off her dirty denim jacket. She had smoked at least five cigarettes, while enjoying poking around in the homeowner's cupboards.

Many cans of food were there, as if they were expecting a nuclear war or the apocalypse. She found some food in the fridge, most of it rotting, but scraped all the mould off the cheese, and sat there eating it. It reminded of her Zedlock days, when she would try and save on money. Scraping mould off cheese. When she was still with Geoff, and the others still named themselves as her so-called 'friends'.

She mechanically ate tinned peaches, smoked the cigarettes as if she had not been through a lot of trauma. She didn't think about the man who had brought her here, who was watching her from afar. He had finished destroying the room, and his rage was put aside, for now. She had not noticed him walk past her, behind her, into the living room, and seat himself on a leather chair, regarding her.

He surveyed her, head bent, his fingertips pressed together. His brow was crossed, and those black holes flickered briefly, to a hint of red whenever he thought of his rage. An ever-present rage. He felt claustrophobic in this filthy Muggle house – more like, hovel – with this woman who had defied him at every turn. She had destroyed his safeguard. Yet she had not destroyed his plans, although for now they were put on hold. How long would he have to wait? How long would he be caged in this hovel?

Would his followers wait for him, or would they continue his plans without him? He felt like destroying the rest of the place, but continued to watch this woman, inhale her tobacco and eat, slowly and fussily, like a bird.

Her face was ashen and sullen, smoking, breathing out that fetid smell through her nose like a bull. The smoke swirled majestically in the air above her, curling upwards. He considered her, for the first time, as rather peculiar looking. Indeed, she was no Annabelle Germaine, and a smirk came to his lips.

Shelley, a strange looking woman; a woman if he was free of all his prejudice (although in his mind he never thought of that word) he would regard someone he would not likely….a rather crude word came to his head, and he stopped it, wrinkling his nose. He despised human contact and the thought of having physical contact with her in an intimate way made him scorn with derision.

She had a rather high forehead, one that needed essentially to be covered by a fringe. Instead, she left it bare to the world, so bare and high that it caught the light. The brown dye in her shoulder-length permed hair was beginning to fade, and her original blonde roots were showing through. Her eyes were terribly pale looking with a certain sharpness to them – a dove's eyes. Her eyebrows were barely invisible, and the roundness of her face exacerbated her piggy-like nose.

But, he thought, rather offhandedly, there was something fascinating about her. A queer, fascination.

She was like an experiment. There was a sharp pain, and he was pulled from his musing harshly.

He had sustained an injury, much to his chagrin, although he was not sure how from the struggle that they had entailed several hours ago. She had been sitting at the table, indifferent to him and her surroundings for around three hours. He had been sat there for an hour – perhaps even more. He lifted himself jerkily from the large leather armchair, and headed towards the bathroom, inside the bedroom, once again unnoticed by her.

It irked him that she was ignoring him – it was the best power she had, and it was affecting him. How would he make her submit, he pondered, as he stripped himself off from is upper clothes. He shredded them to the dusty tiled floor of the stark white bathroom, a contrast to the wooden interior of the hut. He was just clad in an undershirt, when he surveyed the full extent of his injuries.

He wasn't sure how they came about; perhaps it was the struggle during apparition, due to _her. _He could smell the smoke from here. The wound was a circular, round gash in his right arm, rather deep. He studied it, like a machine, as if it had not been agonising to do so. He ran the water from the tap, quickly, snatching a white towel from a rail next to the sink. It was so deep and circular that it failed to dribble down his arm, yet another gash on the right hand side of his torso did, staining his undershirt. He stripped it off mechanically.

You would not have suspected the two humans to be normal, if you were a stranger looking in on them.

They acted accordingly, and mechanically. There was dirt, and grime, and a small piece of shrapnel in his gash. He took a pair of shiny tweezers from the small cabinet in front of him and unemotionally dug it into the gash, now causing blood to leak quickly down his wiry arm.

He realised the extent of the injury. He flexed his fingers to soften the pain, and tugged at the piece of shrapnel which had buried itself right inside his skin, between all the various layers of skin. It simply would not budge as he twisted and turned at it with the tweezers, making the blood leak quicker. Frustrated, he threw the tweezers in the now bloody sink. He was bleeding rather profusely, running down his arm, between his fingers. He instead took the towel and staunched the bleeding from the gash on his torso, just above his nipple. It was not as nearly deep, and he washed it over several times.

He began to wish he had not used the entirety of the Dittany on that worthless mudblood. She should have bled to death on the floor – staining this despicable fleapit with her dirty blood. He had another go at his gash, managing to cleanse it of grime, although picking out large blood clots in the process and titbits of skin, plopping them into the sink. The sink was grotesque – it looked like something had been drained of its blood inside it. There was a sudden creak from behind him, and his sharp, dark eyes snapped to the mirror. Her deathly pallid face stared at him owlishly, mouth agape.

She flicked her eyes away from his, wincing at his death-like stare, to the blood in the sink, and the horrific injury in his arm.

"Yes, Muggle slut, I sacrificed my own, untainted blood to save yours. You should feel rather honoured."

She ignored his comment, going a little green at the edges as she stepped closer, looking at his injury. She stole a rather stealthy look at the tautened muscles in his upper back, the pale skin stretching over it.

He appeared stronger than she thought, worryingly.

"You're making it worse – digging around in there," her voice barely whispered, shakily. He snorted derisively.

"Ah yes, I forget momentarily the school employed _you_, of all people, to become their Healing Assistant. How shameful, though, for you to return to a place that you dropped out of. Unable to handle magic. Despicable."

She glanced up at him, and he saw deep pain in her eyes. He sneered at her, wanting to close his already tightened fists around her thin, pale neck. It would be so easy, to snap her neck in two, to crush that very windpipe. He knew she had a lot of resistance in her; he did not have to remind himself of that.

Stella herself was not sure why she provoked this behaviour, allow herself to be trampled on by him. If she had been another person, she would have felt utterly nauseated by the rather grotesque wound on his arm. However, it was her instinct to heal him, despite who he was and what he had done to her.

She shivered involuntarily; what would he do to her now? She knew of the situation; they both could not perform magic due to the detection spell that was cast around them, and most likely they could not leave the hut. Surely Snatchers and Death Eaters were on the prowl, knowing fully well that they were in Russia and continued to be so. They might even have detained Germaine and the other man, torturing them for information.

The only thing that relaxed was that he could not use magic against her; on the other hand, he had used physical force on her before, and he had been surprisingly strong, despite his tall, thin appearance. He began ignoring her, and tended to the disgusting gash on his inner forearm. He felt vaguely surprised that she was not drunk; he knew that she was an alcoholic. Disgusting.

He wished that she had felt sickened by his wound; he liked to see weakness, but she did not even flinch.

"Leave me!" he bellowed suddenly, which did make her flinch.

She paused for a little, holding his eye contact, pleading desperately to allow her to heal him, but he was having none of it. He dug the tweezers back into his arm forcefully, pulling out more clumps of dirt, and skin. It now appeared as if there was a large, gaping hole in his arm.

The gash was so deep; she had a brief glimpse of muscle. He was taunting her! She turned to leave, realising that if it became infected, for there was no healing potions around, it would be entirely his fault. If he contracted something as terrible as gangrene, so be it. He deserved it, she thought bitterly. Then – this was a twentieth century house, not a cave from the pre-historic ages. She turned back round, pushed past him, and flung open the cabinet.

Luckily, she was well acquainted with healing methods of the non-magical way.

She had been tempted, at first, to become a nurse in the nearest Muggle hospital at home. He stepped back, gritting his teeth, watching her faff around in the cupboard before him. He noticed, then, that she was still wearing that constricting, embarrassing dress he had purposely chosen out for her, to make her as feel uncomfortable as possible.

It was dirty, and become a little loose around the sides, and it hitched a little, up the back of her thighs as she reached to grab something. He clucked his tongue. She fetched a swab of cotton wool, and poured a little liquid from a bottle named 'Savlon' onto it.

"You attempt to heal the _Muggle _way?" he sneered, spraying spit.

"Yes well, at a time like this, when there is no magic perhaps that might be the best option. If you are to leave this large, and deep wound, then it will become affected quickly, and most likely affect your entire arm. You will contract gangrene, or something else."

He knew perfectly well what the disease was, yet the way she spoke it, was as if he was ignorant and brainless. He was not sure why he was going to let her clean his wound, but as soon as she touched his wound without warning him of how much it was to sting, he threw his arm up in agony, hissing, catching her jaw with his hand. He'd split her lip in the process. Silently, after staring at him, blood smearing those little pathetic lips of hers, she put the bloody cotton swab down, with the bottle, and left the room.

In anger, he let the bottle of 'Savlon' drain down the scarlet sink, wanting to defy her, and sat in the bathroom, letting himself bleed out, just in sheer determination, wanting to defy her words.

Stella didn't take any notice. She shut the bathroom door behind her.

She didn't think about the dress she was still wearing. She didn't want to be anywhere near him. It was pitch dark outside. Settling on the comfy sofa in the living room, she drew the throw around her.

It was black in the room. Little objects peered at her from different corners of the room. Branches of the trees moved outside. There was a thudding from down below. Merlin knew what that was. She began trembling. The thing that mostly frightened her; was that he was only a room away, and could murder her in her sleep. She had ruined his plans, and his so called safeguard.

He would strangle her to death.

She sat up, eyes wide, petrified in the dark.

Later, she shuffled around in the kitchen, with a lighted candle, found some alcohol, and drunk herself to sleep.

He did not emerge from the bedroom for the rest of the night.


	14. The Unsucessful Attempt

**THE UNSUCESSFUL ATTEMPT**

When Stella woke up, she was frozen with the cold, the throw on the floor below her, the bottle of sherry completely empty.

She was surprised momentarily last night when she found the Russian occupants of the house did not have vodka. If they had fled, well, they probably would have taken it. She didn't blame them though. Her leg was throbbing from the pervious, rather traumatic events of the day.

Her head was pounding with her oncoming hangover. The living room was stark bright, from the light outside, the brilliant snow luminous. There was no sun however. By squinting her eyes carefully as she walked over to the window by the front door, it had not snowed overnight either. She could see a large patch of redness, a few metres away, and deduced it was her blood from the day before. She took a look at her leg; ashen, with a pale pink scar running around the length of her shin.

He had purposely left her a scar, the absolute bastard.

She froze when she thought of him, and realised he was no where to be found, in the kitchen or living room. She found she was still in that godforsaken dress, and deducing he was definitely in the bedroom or bathroom, ripped it off in one small move. She dropped it with disgust, and with a newly found freedom, wrapped the large throw around her body. She was no longer in that dress – in his tight grip.

Stella picked the dress up, took it to the gas stove. She lit the dress on fire, and let it burn in the deep, circular sink. There was a fair amount of smoke, and indifferent to what he would think, sat herself back on the sofa, and lit a morning cigarette to calm the now pounding headache. She felt strangely tired, despite, looking at the clock ticking on the wall, sleeping for twelve hours.

It was midday.

Several moments later she heard thuds, and heavy, expensive footsteps that belonged to highly polished black shoes, probably tarnished by blood, addled her mind. The footsteps stopped halfway, as if pausing in contemplation, and then the corner of her sight was met by a familiar, grossly familiar, tall, languid figure.

Corcoran's face was puce.

She wasn't sure that was either from his wound, or the fact that she had burnt the dress he had picked for her in the sink.

She wanted to laugh….it was comic relief….

She had burnt the sink in the dress. Her lips curled upwards as she took a drag.

Meanwhile, it took every shred of common human decency and morality not for Magnus Corcoran, or as we know, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to curse or strangle the woman on the spot. That was the last straw, he thundered in his mind. It was the last thing she would do to defy him. He decided to show that he was stronger than she deduced, and that presenting anger would be a predictable thing. She had clearly wanted to anger him. It was entertainment for her. He saw the empty bottle on the floor.

He inwardly reeled. She had drunk herself to sleep. And now she was just wrapped in an unsavoury looking throw, her bony shoulders and collarbones on display. She finally looked at him, after distinguishing her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table opposite the table.

"That was rather clever," he stated, smirking at her.

She just stared at him blankly, biting her fingernails.

"But rather childish, wouldn't you say, Shelley?"

She didn't say or do anything, and looked away from him, her façade utterly indifferent. He was inwardly howling, a storm thundering, a wolf ready to chew its prey into pieces. If only he could…

"Why must you keep up with this rather, pitiable, defiance? You know you will not win. I can just so easily turn you in, have you sent to Azkaban, where you will rot, and your filthy blood finally returning to its very filthy home….the dirt of the earth. You really are not in a position to rebel against me at all, I'm afraid, Shelley."

She began to laugh at him, hauling herself up to face him. She was average height for a woman, around five foot five, perhaps a little taller, and it both surprised and gladdened him that he was nearly a whole head taller than her. She was like an ant, ready to be squished. His loathing for people like her was indescribable. And unreasonable, her mind thought, as she stared at him shrewdly.

Abruptly, she felt severely uncomfortable, her nerve and hangover blurry-like feelings all melting away, replaced by cold, hard reality. She was there, clad in knickers and a throw, and she noticed the way his eyes roved over her; rather condescendingly.

"Don't think I'm so stupid, as you view me to be, your prejudice blinds you," she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him.

She saw he had wrapped, rather scruffily, a bandage around his arm, but the blood had soaked right through and soaked the skin around it. She made a show of analysing his pathetic attempts and drew a smirk, enough to make him start trembling with new found anger, once again.

"Those wizards were after you as well. I could tell…I was not so blinded with pain and the thought of flight to escape the fact that they were shooting spells at you…"

He decided to mirror her smirk, folding his arms.

"I think you were rather blinded, by your own stupidity rather. Why on earth do you think they would be after me?"

She snorted at him.

"It does not take a genius to work that one out. All your discussions of a secret base based in this country, your talks of this so-called artefact…."

His jaw was grinding. She wanted to see how much she could push him to the edge, and continued, trying to be unaware of the consequences.

"Your dressing is rather poor. You should have let me sort it out. The great and mighty Magnus Corcoran is thwarted – merely unable to survive without the aid of magic. Dear, dear! You may be uncommonly intelligent, but your common sense is like that of a baby's."

He was definitely angered, but he did not say anything more, or do anything more. He just stormed away, back into the bedroom, much to her annoyance, as she was bursting for a shower.

In the space of five minutes, she ignored this fact, and walked after him into the bedroom. He was positioned by the window, stiffly, his hands behind his back, and did not turn when she walked past him, heading for the bathroom. She locked the door tightly, before turning on the shower.

It was electric, and apparently out of power.

So she ran a bath instead, thankfully the water was on. She had a fair share of bath bubble bottles to choose from, and picked a strawberry flavoured one.

She decided it was the most surreal experience of her life – but perhaps it was nice, for once, to be away from England. Away from the memories of her ex, her friends, and the death of her Nana. That one hit her suddenly. She had numbed herself not to feel the grief over her Nana's death, but it now hit her like a ton of rocks. Her grandmother was dead.

She could no longer visit her.

Her grandmother's ashes lay waiting, in the hallway of her mother's house, waiting to be passed back to the world, to be rested in peace. She sat there for an hour until the water was cold. The house itself was freezing, and as she climbed out, her skin was icy as the air was.

Thankfully, Corcoran was no longer in the bedroom when she exited the bathroom. She found a simple long sleeved t-shirt, and a pair of slim jeans, fitting her well. She lay on the bed, thinking of her Nana, unwilling to move, but at the same time, thinking of escape.

He could not bring himself to eat. He was far too restless, stuck in this prison. He had slept on the couch, and she had not exited from the bedroom in a day. The outside was incredibly thick with snow; more had fallen overnight, and it seemed, they were physically stuck inside the house.

The snow came halfway up the door, and covered most of the windows, causing all light within the log cabin to be drained. He began to wonder now, gritting his jaw suddenly, if she had escaped; or tried to. She would have to be stupid to do such a thing, there was nothing around for miles on end, and she would not survive in this cold. Still, she was a Muggle-born – born stupid, he mused.

He stood up, still clad in his blazer jacket, now underneath his robes, which he had flung on in the cold. He was dressed neatly right down to his polished shoes. It didn't appear as if he had stepped a toe out of line when upon reaching this cavern. Not only was she endangering herself and risking own capture if she ventured outside – she was also risking him – and that he could not allow.

He threw himself onto his feet, his black shoes clapping nosily on the wooden floor, as he strode, nostrils flared to the bedroom. He burst the door open so violently, that it bashed into the wall behind, and another vase which he had failed to smash before, now flew to the ground.

Shelley was back to being blonde, and was dressed in Muggle attire – a sweater and trousers. He wrinkled his nose, unused to seeing women in trousers. She seemed to have jerked away from the window, her owl-like gaze on her face again as she stared at him. Her hand was still on the window ledge as she stared at him.

"Come to taunt or insult me, again?" she demanded.

Her voice sounded a little shaky, as if she had spent the last day or so crying hard. He didn't take well to emotions, and lest of all crying, which rendered him embarrassed and very uncomfortable, unable to know what to do. He didn't think of those feelings on the surface, he covered them with a blanket of deeming it as weak and pitiful. If she had been crying, there was no evidence, no handkerchiefs or tissues anywhere. Only her nose was pink, but her nose always took on a pink hue.

He wasn't why he even contemplated her crying. He certainly did not feel sorry for her. He smirked at her instead. She had been testing out the window, or she had been studying the desolation outside, adding everything up. _The cunning bitch…._

"I cannot allow you to risk my capture by stupidly throwing yourself into a white abyss," he remarked snidely, ever so subtly gliding up to her, trying to make her feel wary.

She possibly did, and kept her stance, irksomely staring right into his eyes. She was looking as if she could see straight through him; as if she knew something that he did not.

"You will die out there, the nearest city is Magadan, and that is miles away."

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. He noted that. She was defending herself, wrapping her arms across her body. Did she think he would touch her?

He remembered her remark on how much he had needed to touch her. That unnerved him as well – as if he would want to touch her, the wench!

"Oh so you know the location. This location based on where your little – _whatever_ – is?"

She patronisingly remarked, unnerving him. He grinded his jaw, but stood up straighter, and was now in front of her, staring down at her.

"I have more power than you presume. I can manipulate those imbeciles's minds so that they will not recognise me. I will gladly give you away to them, and you will rot in Azkaban. They will kill your family. All I need to do," he spoke, in a very low, silky tone, standing very close to her now, so that his chin was directly above her own mass of hair. He drew out his wand, always so very close to him, on immediate hand.

He made the great motion of slowly pulling his wand from his robes, dragging it up her sweater, over her neck and forcefully dug it into her chin, emitting a sharp wince from her. She didn't step backwards however, or cower from him.

"You can threaten me as much as you like, Mr – whoever – you are," she spoke through her teeth, her brown eyes absorbing him.

"You may think you are my superior, but to me you're just as common as the rest. A common criminal. You cover it up with all these empty threats. I destroyed whatever you were after, and now you are helpless. I wonder if you really have any bases out here. What exactly are you looking for, Mr Professor? You are only too afraid to kill me, because you would be left alone, without any resources. _Desolate_ in this Muggle house."

It took every cell in his body not to curse her on the spot, to kill her then and there. He was so, so close to doing, and so many times he had felt it! He had to show he was much stronger than she thought him to be – she liked provoking him, seeing how far she could push him to the edge.

Not even him digging his wand into the underside of her chin could scare her – mainly because they could not perform magic without being discovered straight away. He straightened up more, smirking, and slipped his wand back under his thick robes. He lifted his long pale fingers to her face, and stroked the tips of them along her jaw, back and forwards temptingly – almost seductively, teasing her.

He saw her falter just a little; her eyes flickered at the caress. However, Stella tried not to be fooled. She felt he was examining her, provoking her just as she did him. Two can play at this game of provocation, he arrogantly thought.

She would not let him get to her, no matter how seductive his touch was. He was doing it on purpose. He turned slowly away, still smirking at her, and closed the door. Before she could even realise, he had turned the key in the lock. She rushed towards the door, banging at the wood, and tugging at the door handle.

It was a futile attempt, and she was trapped before she even knew it.

Panicking, she turned back towards the windows, only to find them shut tightly. How on earth, were they shut this tightly? It was him, she thought angrily, although having no idea how he did it, without alerting the detection spell that was cast around them. There was an unsettling twinge in the bottom of her stomach, now that she was trapped in this prison, with a man she had underestimated.

She could hear him faintly laughing at her behind the other door, cursing her, as she frowned and threw herself on the floor next to the bed, burying her head in her arms. She was a prisoner, in the middle of a bleak foreign land, with a madman.

Back in the British Isles, life could have continued on as it had done before, with the continued process of Muggle-borns being detained due to their status and numerous amounts of people disappearing; Stella Shelley and Magnus Corcoran being two of them.

Conversely, it did not.

The Battle of Hogwarts was due to begin, and although Lord Voldemort was close to feeling the sweet success of victory, sure he was going to defeat the boy who lived, there was a small glimmer of doubt inside of him; his younger, invigorated self had come back to life, and it seemed intent on getting rid of him.

He only knew that; he knew himself well enough, and the younger self would deem him as already weak, feeble. He could only imagine in anxiety that his new self would be more powerful than ever. Most of his Horcruxes were destroyed now; what would he do?

He held off the Battle of Hogwarts, ordering most of his Death Eaters to search high and low for the cursed young Tom Riddle.

He would not relent, until his younger self had been found and destroyed. The elder Lord Voldemort had no mercy; his Death Eaters would kill as soon as they found him. He did not want to interrogate his younger self. He wanted to know nothing. Harry, his friends, the people of Hogwarts held their breaths.

It was a couple of days later, and Stella had been starved.

She drunk the water out of the taps in the bathroom, and wondered how the man next door who kept her captive could stand without washing, or relieving himself. Perhaps he had been sneaking in when she had been asleep, which was not often.

Most of the time, she had been too terrified to sleep, in case he would have entered and killed her, or done something else. She shuddered as she thought of all the gruesome thoughts came to her mind.

She could hear him, during the day, pacing back and forth along the wooden floors, his step authoritative and loud.

Stella, in those two agonising days, tried desperately to come up with a reasonable plan, but could not think of one appropriate enough. She could only think of filling up a bottle of water, and clothe herself in many clothes as possible and make a run for it; she had the advantage of being in the bedroom and thankfully close to the bathroom.

Starved, cold and being alone with her thoughts was more than she could stand; especially without alcohol, the weighing, sorrowful thoughts of her life, her failing life, would crash down on her with the intensity of a meteorite. The initial hurt from Geoff and Elsa and her so-called friends, the fact she dropped out of school, her alcoholism, her career which seemed to be haunting her, all lowered her self-esteem, as she cradled herself in those two days. Not forgetting the death of her grandmother, the one person whom she had been very close to.

She pondered on how her mother was feeling at this exact moment; probably tearing her hair out in worry, or calmly acknowledging her daughter had run off to hide again.

Most likely the latter, she thought despondently. After her Nana's death, which she had not experienced, Stella presumed that she would never be able to carry on as normal, that life would not quite be the same without the woman in her life.

But, surprisingly, she had continued to carry out menial tasks everyday tasks as if nothing happened, every so often the shattering grief would hit her.

In those five months in which she lay low, the last image of Isabelle Vlautin imprinted on Stella's mind was the one in hospital, her bed kicked aside by those Snatchers, or Death Eaters, she couldn't remember which one now. The funeral had been short, hardly a memory. The ashes still lay in her mother's house, hopefully untouched. Hopefully her family would stay untouched.

No one really knew about her family, seeing they were Muggles.

This was good and bad in itself. The thing was that she had gone missing, with another wanted man. Why was he wanted? Was he Muggle-born? She doubted that, with all these insults he had been hurling at her virtually since day one. Surely these terrible people would trace her to her mother's house? Interrogate her mother? Hurt her?

What about her little brothers? Stella rocked herself back and forth on the bed, shivering with the cold, and fear. It was probably colder inside than it was out. She was not sure how to get past it. To get past the initial stage of grief – it had been going around in circles for an eternity, she felt. Perhaps she would never get over it.

She had seen her Nana's dying face, had attended her funeral, yet she was just not gone.

The physical evidence was not enough, and never would be. She wasn't sure when to accept it.

Unable to process much more, Stella lifted herself up. She crept quietly around the room, digging out piles of warm clothes, and the largest fur-lined jacket she had seen. She found some snow boots, slightly too small for her, but size and fashion clearly did not matter in this case.

She barely had her thinking straight. Her hands shook violently as she filled a canister of water from the sink in the bathroom, taking a small sip, wiping her mouth. She had her denim jacket underneath everything, and her Polaroid photograph of her Nana clutched tightly in her mittened hand.

The coat was so huge she could easily fit an extra scarf and a pair of gloves inside it, along with the water canister. She processed the thought in her befuddled, agonised state that it would be difficult to get through the window. She had budged it hard enough times, and it simply would not break open, so she would have to take drastic action instead. She could no longer hear him pacing frantically, and took the hint that he might be asleep, praying he was not listening to her.

The log cabin was very old, originating mostly likely from the 1800s, especially the bedroom, and the one window she had chosen to break out of had not yet been double glazed. The bedroom was the coldest in the house, although it had a fireplace, unfortunately with no firewood. She became frantic; without thinking properly, she took the poker from the fireplace, and smashed it straight through the window.

Her wand was close at bay, just in case he would burst through. She didn't contemplate the detection charm. She no longer cared. It was an act of desperation. The glass, flimsy and weak, battered by the elements, easily broke, and shattered everywhere. Most of it spilled onto the snow outside, thankfully. She cautiously cleared the rest of the broken glass away from the window frame.

Placing the poker on the ground, she stared wide-eyed at the door. No sounds or movement. She didn't hesitate. Stepping onto the dressing stool she took from the dressing table, Stella hooked one leg over the window frame, immediately hitting snow. It was incredibly thick. Her right leg, arm and head were already free. She swung the other leg over, catching her leg on a piece of glass, but had not noticed it. She swung herself below, sinking right into the sea of snow below her.

It was waist deep. Stella wasted no time once more.

She was already panting heavily, and waded through the snow, unable to get a good pace, unable to run away from the cabin as fast as she wanted to. Her scarred leg began to throb, and her jeans were soaked already from the moisture of the snow. Her cheeks burnt with the icy temperature of the air, and the tips of her fingers were freezing.

At the far end of her mind, one small voice told her that Corcoran was right. She would die out in this 'white abyss' as he named it, if she didn't get to safety first. If only she had a broom!

If only she could apparate! She cursed herself, again feeling the deep regret of ever having dropped out of Hogwarts. She kept going, however, the will to escape the monster behind overpowering her rational mind. She would rather die out in the cold, than be murdered in cold blood by him. And Merlin knows what he could do to her….Knife her?

Boil her brains with this powerful magic he so claimed to have? All she could see around her was unspoiled, waist-high, thick snow, with tall, dying trees sticking out of the whiteness like dead remains. There were tears running down her cheeks, she was not sure whether it was from exhaustion, frustration or sorrow. She wanted her Nana!

"Where are you, Nana…?" She began crying softly.

Her legs would not stop wading through the snow, however. Her stomach grumbled with its emptiness, and the little energy she had barely sustained her, but the ongoing motion in her legs. It was the survival instinct. She didn't bother turning back, panting and crying out quietly. The trees began to look like tall, hideous monsters in front of her, and around her, closing in slowly, ready to devour whatever was in sight. Angrily, she shoved the snow away with her hands, kicking it aside.

It was still high, and it was becoming thicker. It just went on for miles, absolutely nothing in sight, apart from white abyss….White abyss!

Curse that man! He brought her here, starved her…What for? They were trapped here, in a barren prison, without magic. Why could he not apparate them both to a safer location? There had to be a reason. The magic charm was probably tracing them…tracing her right now! She snatched out her wand, aiming it around her, turning slowly, pointing it at each of the tall trees in turn, and eyes so wide she appeared gaunt.

Her face was flushed bright pink with her cold. She kept thinking that the trees were moving, or that something was moving in between them. Her heart pounded hard, as she continued to crunch through the snow, desperate, not even sweating underneath her clothes. It seemed as if she was becoming colder. How is that possible, her mind spoke in agony.

She was seeing things now – the cold was getting to her quicker than she thought, and it was terribly sly, for it must be at least twenty degrees below zero, and had a subtle way of getting to you before you could possibly register it. She breathed out, turning round, to check he wasn't in tow, and he wasn't. Perhaps he was in between the trees, hunting her, like she was mere prey to him.

She kept moving, but her joints seemed to be stiffening. She now could not feel her fingertips or toes.

Her mind froze over in troublesome numbness. It would be ridiculous to go back, to admit defeat, to admit that he was right….to what? Kneel at his feet and claim that he was right? He had no control over this.

Mother Nature, always unforgiving, had complete control over them.

He, although he did not like to show it, was just as powerless as her. The thing was, she did not want to die out here in vain, because of him. That he had driven her to her death. Next time she had to be more forceful with him, now she knew that he could not wave his wand at her. Which he had not done as such, in fact, he hardly had used any magic against her, only physical force.

Perhaps she outwitted him. He did not know about her, and only assumed things; she dropped out, therefore she could not do magic. But he had witnessed her magic; she had destroyed his potion. She stopped, breathing hitched. He had not killed her! Why had he not killed her? She was sure he would immediately upon seeing her; he did not. The question as well; why on earth did she assume he would kill her? She did not know a thing about him; other than he was impersonating a teacher under a somewhat different identity.

He was intent on gaining more knowledge about magical power. She realised she would die out here, and turned back round, seeing the little dot of the hut in the distance. Stella hated herself for going back, feeling like she was defeated. But she had to. She had to find some other way to get under his skin, perhaps find out what was really going on in that thick skull of his.

She had to admit there was something off about him from the very start. Not to mention now, he appeared around her age; his real age. As a teacher, he looked like he was somewhere in his thirties. In fact there were great similarities between his two appearances other than age and hair colour. His real hair colour was raven black, rather unusual for someone British. He kept it neat like he did when a 'teacher', but there was an unruly, slight waviness to it, something he probably could not tame, for once.

The log cabin became closer than she had wanted, and she saw the broken glass of the window on the snow. She pulled in a breath, but was not anxious to see him, like she usually would be. In fact, she was so cold; she had barely any strength to think.

She walked up the steps onto the veranda of the cabin, and pushed open the door. It swung open rather easily, and all she could see was a tall figure rise from one of the armchairs as she fell to the ground, frozen to the bone.


	15. Observing Stella

**Author's Note:  
**Thank you again for the reviews. You are lovely, people! It really means a lot, and motivates me :3

To warn you if you're prude or very young; adult themes in this chapter. As before, this wasn't rated M for nothing ;)

Language warning also. Badass chapter really.

**OBSERVING STELLA **

He regarded her with the same demeanour that showed in her face; she was far too predictable.

She had done exactly what he had expected of her, and now she lay at his feet, as he leered down at her. His arms were crossed tightly and his black robes swirled around him. He wanted to laugh at her – how pitiful this little wench looked beneath him, where she belonged!

Why should he help her, for a second time, a second mistake she had inflicted upon herself. It seemed he was doing far too much for her these days. She was becoming a burden, a large, unwanted responsibility for him that seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

Well, he contemplated, nudging her forearm with his boot; he wouldn't have to keep hold of her for much longer. He would keep her waiting around, using her as bait for the next artefact he had so desperately wanted to find. With his extra strength gone, and now stuck with no magic, she was a perfect sacrifice. The question was, he had no clue where he was, and how far his base was from here.

He would have to work out a plan to get rid of the detection charm. It might be strong, and powerful, and there could be dangerous consequences if a spell backfired. It was Death Eaters who cast it; not Snatchers, there was no doubt it would be strong and put up a fight.

He smirked at her. She lay very still, hardly breathing, but he did not care to notice this.

"Well, Shelley, I needn't berate you for your stupidity – it is the inbreeding of Muggles that answer that question for you. I also needn't tell you I was right. Perhaps it would serve you well to listen to what I say from now on, whether that pleases you or not."

He felt the subtle satisfaction of smugness overflow him for a little while, but it did not last long, as he glanced back down at the young woman before his feet.

She was not stirring, and she did not respond to him, unusual for her. Stella knew this would faze him, and she gritted her teeth all the same, desperately hating him, wanting to claw away at his face, at his eyes and throat, spill his arrogant blood all over the floor.

She tried her best to keep her sudden anger at bay, and it worked beautifully, for her limbs were stiff and she was exhausted from the trek outside. However, she felt she couldn't feel much of her body. Her cheek started to ache from leaning on the cold, hard wooden flooring. She heard his voice again, slithering haughtily from above her.

"I did not come after you, as you expected me to, simply because I knew you would be forced to come back."

Still he elicited no response out of her, and nearly grabbed her hood ready to pull her up, before she spoke back to him, muttering quietly with a subtle hint of resentment in her tone. He stopped his hands just a few centimetres short of the fluffy outside of her hood.

"I wouldn't count on me that much," she spoke. "I'd rather live and suffer you, than die because of you."

Controlling himself greatly, he gritted his teeth, grinding his jaw, knuckles bared stark white, before he forced himself to turn away and away from her.

She heard his heavy boots march back over to the bedroom, the steps vibrating throughout the floorboards.

She breathed out in relief, and stirred a little, but every single limb was immovable. Panicking, Stella breathed out, hearing again his heavy steps, thundering back towards her. There was nothing she could do if he was going to hurt her, or worse, kill her.

Then again, there was a deep inkling inside her, knowing he wouldn't kill her. She flinched and yelped when his sudden voice barked at her from above.

"GET UP!" he roared.

"You will still be cold, and you will suffer from it permanently if you do not move! Your fingers seem to be going that way already."

Stella did not want to say that she simply could not move one limb; she was frozen to the bone, and literally. Then again, it was empowering her once more, not to listen to what he ordered her to do. She wondered if he had done this all his life; order people around, expect them to do his bidding when he wanted. It wasn't a particular attractive trait she had to admit.

Something struck her, an indefinable sadness, and she was indifferent to life or death, whether her fingers dropped off, or he let her die there, silently and peacefully. She was uncaring whether he thought she was weak or not – in her eyes he was the weak one.

It appeared he decided to leave her, for he stormed away again. However, a few seconds later, she could hear running water, splashing and swirling. Then, the heavy steps thundered back over to her. Her heart suddenly began to pound, hard. Yelping loudly, Stella felt herself abruptly being hauled across the floor, her boots dragging snow, under the armpits.

He was rough, and most certainly irritable with her, but he said nothing. She spoke nothing either and he plonked her down on the toilet rather apathetically.

_Why am I doing this for her, he thought irritably. After what she has put me through. _

He routinely stripped her. He pulled the large coat off, dropping it on the ground, and began to remove her layers, like she was a child.

A single strand of hair became stuck on a button on a cardigan. She felt his long fingers work away at it impatiently, muttering what a bird's nest it was. If he had been anyone else, she would have laughed. But she didn't, as she sat on the toilet, being stripped by a man who held her captive in the middle of nowhere. He took all her top layers off until he left her in her bra.

He ordered her to stand up, after taking away her boots and socks, but she shook her head, unable to. There were sudden tears of humiliation in her eyes. He did not care, as he put one arm round her waist and extremely roughly pulled her soggy jeans off her.

He dropped them on the ground as if they had burned him. He set her back down, hanging the wet clothes on the radiator, before snapping his attention back to her. It didn't really hit Stella that she was only half naked in front of this madman, she was too cold and indifferent to feel it, the humiliation now vanished. She just stared at him, with round, haunted eyes.

He didn't look at her, strangely enough; it was as if he was forcing himself to look away. He snapped at her, jerking her, to get into the bath, but she still sat there, trying to defy him. Becoming angry, he didn't leave her much time, before grabbing her harshly by the upper arms, and hauled her into the tub, splashing water everywhere. She sunk in slowly, reaching for the edge of the tub, coughing a little as some water flew straight into her mouth. She glanced at him, seeing his robe was now wet with water, and he was breathing rather fast.

The tub was deep with water, and her chin was now at the water level.

"I can be thankful that you did not run a hot bath," she spoke croakily, barely any energy left in her.

"But it is still not the best way to treat hypothermia…"

Stella felt rather triumphant over his cluelessness. He stood up from his crouching position, towering over her, his jaw grinding.

"What do you propose then?" he sneered loudly.

"Warming me…gently," she breathed.

In a blink of a mere eye, Corcoran lost his self-control.

He reached across the bath towards her neck, and grabbed it as hard as his cold, thin hands could muster. She was half expecting it, she supposed, but she was clearly not expecting him to move so fast.

One moment he was at the other end of the room, staring her down, the next he was right in front of her, so close their noses were nearly touching. She struggled, the sudden breath that was in her mouth and throat crushed out of her.

Her body began struggling automatically, and her hands reached up to his own to pull them off. He was slowly strangling her, and her mind registered this, before panicking. Water was splashed everywhere, her legs kicked, while the sounds of her chokes filled the room.

Tears streamed out of her eyes from the action, and ran down his long, pale fingers.

His face was pallid in colour, and a large frown-line was enveloped across his forehead, but he was completely expressionless. After a few moments, Stella could only choke so much. She felt her eyes roll in the back of her head, and her lungs were ready to burst.

Her limbs were beginning to go numb, and her face was blushing a strange bluish colour. She felt like his strong, nimble fingers would break her neck. How dare he do this – in such a demeaning manner, her, half naked in a bath he had run! Struggling for the last ounce of air, she lifted her arms up although there was barely any energy. She wouldn't plead with him to save her, a useless feat.

She lifted her trembling hands, thumbs particularly, to his eyes, and pushed – extremely hard. He jerked away in agony, falling back on his haunches, swearing violently, clutching a hand to his face. She didn't wait around to regain her breath, and flung herself upwards and out of the bath, choking wildly.

Stella did not get very far however, after she clambered out of the bath. He recovered quickly, and grabbed her ankle tightly.

She immediately fell, catching herself on the sink beside her. With a terrible loud plonk, she fell to the ground, still coughing and soaking. She wasn't sure how her hair had become soaked, and it lay, straightened, below her shoulders messily. The floor was flooded with bath water, and Riddle sat up quickly, staring at her form, while she still tried to regain her breath.

She was on her back, soaked to the skin, taking in short, quick gasps. Her skin took on a disgusting hue, from nearly dying. She must be dying, he thought.

Perhaps he could drag her out to the snow, and leave her to freeze? He so desperately wanted to _Crucio _her, for the blood in his fingers were pounding after strangling her so brutally. However, despite his wishes, he would not risk himself and everything for this Mudblood.

Both of them were panting heavily. She had partly regained her breath, but was still hauling in large pants. With trembling arms, she pulled herself up slowly, her throat aching. There would be some rather impressive marks on her neck in a few hours.

She was rather shaking more from her enveloping Hypothermia rather than nearly being strangled to death, not taking any notice of him. At the back of her mind, she barely acknowledged he had not moved to kill her.

Finally, a minute later, she met eyes with him, but he was not glaring at her face any more. In fact, his eyes were not glaring; they were staring, roving over her half naked body that sat on the flooded floor in front of him. In slight discomfort, she realised he was, in particular, staring at her chest.

Her nipples, she guessed would have hardened from the cold. However, she made no move to cover herself out of embarrassment, and stared back at him – challenging him more like, despite her entire body trembling.

She saw he still had his dark robe on, which was half soaked from the bath water.

Riddle considered her for the moment, forgetting whom he was staring at.

He wasn't unused to a naked body; in fact he had been with Annabelle for a time at the beginning. He did not like physical contact generally, it brought about emotions, and to think of this Muggle-born woman in front of him, naked was rather repulsive – bur totally endearing at the same time.

He seemed to be in a dream-like state from his adrenaline, and reached forward abruptly, taking her arm, digging his fingers into her fleshy skin. She stiffened immediately, but made no move to escape.

He felt aroused, much to his chagrin, but didn't stop himself. Pushing her slowly to the wet floor, he climbed on top of her, shrouding her in his black cloak, his knees on either side of her hips. She emotionlessly acknowledged him, but he could see something in her eyes, what was it?

She did say she needed to be warmed gently. He put a gloved hand on her breast, so desperately wanting to touch that hardened nipple, and as he did so, her breath hitched. There was a great satisfaction which rose in him, for she was not fighting him for once.

He had her in his control, and it was wonderful. He slipped one glove off, and threw it casually to the side, watching her trying to keep an expressionless face. He smirked at her, leaning further down, stretching himself out, until he was lying completely on top of her.

She saw carefully, his pupils were slightly dilated, although it was difficult to make out since his irises were so dark.

He was aroused by her, and was not trying to humiliate her as before. His actions seemed to be genuine, but there was a smugness to it all. Taking his warming hand unthinkingly, she slipped his fingers under her bra, hearing his breath falter. His warm, now jerky breath beat down on her forehead, as he slowly massaged her breast.

She might have been aroused by it if she weren't so cold, although her own breath was faltering. In that moment, he seemed rather attractive to her, his chiselled face now devoid of hatred, and replaced with sudden lust. His usual neat hair had been messed and soaked from their struggle.

They lay there, their bodies warming quickly. He then twisted her nipple rather harshly, and she jerked, gasping in pain, but could not move for all his body weight was placed on top of her.

"Get off me," she croaked.

She seemed to have lost her voice from all the kerfuffle. He frowned, his hand still under her bra, and he moved his other hand to meet the other one. He slipped it under her bra again, and stroked her teasingly. It was not the time and the place, she considered angrily.

He lost the frown, and smiled, eerily.

"You said you needed warming, gently…." he replied gruffly.

His face was so close his lips were touching the bridge between her eyes and nose. His hands would not stop their ministrations, and she was afraid she would like it, which was already happening. To her horror, she felt his hardness slowly developing, and began to struggle underneath him.

He pushed down on her chest, pinning her to the ground, lifting his head down to her neck to bite sharply on the tender skin which was already very tender from his earlier actions. She didn't make a sound, but he could feel her body wince in pain.

He suddenly pulled down her bra rather roughly, but before he could glimpse at her chest, she hit him round the jaw, and pushed him off of her with the last piece of strength she had. Stella darted towards the bedroom, and grabbed a throw that was on the end of the bed and wrapped it around her.

She felt both disgusted, as if she had been rubbed in shit – but also very attractive. The core of her sex was suddenly throbbing in want, but why? She had never felt like that about Geoff. Perhaps once, she surmised, but never like this. What was it that made her feel like this? He was on his knees, and then straightened up, back to his tall stature, his black holes for eyes taking her in.

His sneering face was back on.

"I'll warm myself, thanks," she snapped hoarsely at him.

He chuckled, resting an arm on the towel rack casually. He thought he had won her over with his sexually charged movements on her. How dare he…how dare he do this to her!

Strangled one minute and aroused the next! She suddenly felt more frightened than she had ever been around him. He would soon realise he could make her submit by attracting her….It only suited him. Perhaps he was in need of a good fuck, she thought sarcastically, eyes cascading over his tall body.

But he became irritated, storming over to her, looking down at her.

"You are nothing to me, Shelley. I have only used you as bait. I am far too important to be dealing with things on my own, to be sacrificing myself."

He needed to remind himself this, and she already knew it, but was hurt by it all the same, and turned away, slamming the door. He realised what was so off about their entire affiliation since the beginning. In the past, he had always kept careful stance from his victims or the people he disregarded, he never touched them. Using his magic was a much more impersonal feat against them.

But he had touched her since the beginning; was it because she was unafraid of him? She was when he had touched her sexually. He closed eyes, becoming aroused again. It was the first time he had made her afraid, and it was gloriously sensual. He would like to live off the tears of pleasure and fear he would give her….

Removing the picture and feelings from his mind; he reminded himself she was just a low-life, and walked back to the window, to gaze out at the isolation he had found himself in.

They spent days in silence.

To his satisfaction, she made sure to avoid him, although when stuck inside a small house, that was hardly possible. She didn't do much, and when he strode purposely into the room to intimidate her, she immediately crossed her arms across her breasts in defence or started a cigarette.

She inhaled and exhaled the cigarette furiously, and he nearly wanted to laugh, now that he seemed to have instilled the fear that had so wanted to. But it was not satisfactory enough. It was not a genuine fear that she was showing – it was rather, like disgust, that she could have let him touch her like that. Especially coming from someone like him….

He could almost hear her thoughts echoing around the rooms. He could not eat. He could not even drink, as he sat from the other end of the living room, shrouded in his black robes and cloak, hair falling into his eyes, not swept aside elegantly that anyone had been used to before. He was becoming paranoid, in this prison that they were encased in.

He could not think of his plans anymore, he could not feel coherent amongst his thoughts of her – the thoughts of her lithe, thin, frail body under his kept occurring to him. The memory of it kept reappearing in his mind at most unwanted moments.

He berated himself for such weakness….deep down it felt as if he was failing, and all because of her.

What could he do? If he had succeeded in killing her, then perhaps he would be out of here? Or not? He could not think straight, but did not show it, as he continued to stare at the woman across the room. She was wrapped tightly in the knitted throw, sat on the sofa, staring back at him, but without any emotion.

He could see she was trembling, but did not have the satisfaction of knowing it was because of him – it was because it was extremely cold in the room they sat in. She had drawn her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them. Her usually permed, bushy hair seemed lank and lifeless.

Her lips were chafed and bluish looking. Although he could not see, the other day he had seen terrific bruises on her neck. A piece of artwork he mused, for the bruises were deep shades of purple, black and spots of green. She hid it since she had caught him gazing at her neck in what seemed to her smug fulfilment.

Now she had a knitted scarf cradled around her neck whenever she wasn't buried in the throw. She drew her gaze away from him, feeling the presence of him become a heavy weight on her mind. She would not give into him, into this eye contact he was trying to establish because she knew he would Legilimency on her, and for no reason! She had nothing to hide, except her weaknesses, her past, and her failures.

Which he already knew about! She had been observing him over the last few days, like he her, and it was not unclear to see that he definitely wanted to touch her again in the way he had done so. But even thinking about it again, her nose wrinkled and she gave a deep shiver.

Those actions were mere minutes after he had nearly strangled her to death. He was going paranoid, she was turning crazy. All her unhappiness weighed even more down on her shoulders now that they were in isolation. She would be lying to herself to say that he was not attractive, because he simply was.

He was one of those lucky people in the world that were blessed with un-plain, striking appearances, and all the more so for him. Tall, lean, dark eyed, with a pointed jaw and high cheekbones. She surveyed him, eyed him, wondering how many women he had been with.

Judgementally she decided he was a player. No one that cruel and attractive could possibly be monogamous. She wondered if that associate of his, or follower, the striking Annabelle Germaine, had been with him. Shaking her head, crossing her brow, Stella reprimanded herself. Who on earth cared how many he had been with! After all, why on earth was it competition?

She nearly chuckled to herself, thinking of Adam and Cornelius, her ex-friends who were often loggerheads with each other to see who had slept with the most women, displeasing Cornelius's lover, Patty. She knew Geoff had a girl before her, but nothing had been said about it.

She wondered, painfully, if he was with anyone now. It hurt to think like that, and why she even contemplated it she did not know.

She glanced up at him, who had his head slightly bent. He was dropping off, and was not staring at her now like he was. He had not slept for nights, although she had. He had not eaten either, but both of them had stayed in the living room for five days, living around each other precariously.

She had to admit she feared him more now than she had done before.

The possibility that he wanted to touch her, have sex with her and was even attracted to her frightened her. He felt nothing for her; she had concluded that a long time ago. He had even told her that himself, she was just his bait, for he was too valuable to commence with his plans all by himself in the possibility he might be killed.

She saw he had sunk low in the armchair, his long legs still propped up, and forearms on either arm of the chair. He seemed rather helpless and at peace with himself now that he was dozing in the chair, hair messed up. Despite this fact, he still appeared somewhat intimidating, clothed completely in black.

She decided to have a smoke before she would get up and attempt to leave the room, or, rootle about and see if he had left anything important lying around. After a few short puffs, shaking, she rose from the chair, catching her foot on the edge of the sofa that had been curled around the throw.

Stopping herself on the coffee table, her eyes snapped to him, who was still dozing in the chair. She could see her own quickened breaths in the air as she headed behind the couch towards the kitchen. He was bound to wake anyway, she concluded, for she was going to clatter around in the kitchen to make dinner.

Not that dinner would consist of much – canned beans, potatoes and frozen pie was all it would consist of. She stopped, and smiled to herself, turning back round to gaze at him. He seemed so childish as he slept. She would clatter around on purpose, to chastise him.

Just for fun. After it was a circus world they were living in, no rules, and stupid jests. His stupid, confusing jests.

Indeed she managed to wake him up, but he jerked awake, wand in hand, expecting someone to curse him. He was on his feet like a flash of lightning, but all he could see was her; her that stood there in a dressing gown and woolly scarf, stirring something on the stove.

She appeared bored, by her stance; he couldn't see her face because of the cupboards that hung from the ceiling. She was unsettling to him. She always had been to him, now that she had become a thorn in his side, something he had never wanted to happen.

She was everything that he hated, yet in that single moment in the bathroom after he had felt pure rage, he had been aroused by her body! He found himself looking at her constantly, for these past few days.

Let me have my way with her, he thought, and then I will kill her.

I will get out of here, or I will make her case a spell, and have her taken away, while I escape unscathed. His thoughts were so jumbled. He did not feel like himself anymore, as he walked slowly to the kitchen counters, but lost his sense of thought.

He stumbled into the bedroom behind and angrily put his face in his hands.

What on earth was wrong with him! Where was his straightforward, emotionless thinking? He needed to cleanse himself of her, both physically and mentally.

He thought to run a bath, but all the memories of that bathtub brought back the rage he had felt towards her.

He so desperately wanted to touch her again, have her under his steady control. He liked to breathe and taste her fear.

He needed it to fuel himself, to battle her, this Mudblood who had defied him far too many times. Defied the others, under a new name and identity in Hogwarts! It was good that he found out when he could. You could just give her away after all this, his mind told him.

No one will know of her and you. It settled him. You could abuse her a little. He smirked, leaving the room. Riddle was still fully clothed; robes, gloves, boots.

The air was frozen, yet Stella Shelley stood in front of the stove, in only a small dressing gown, pyjama bottoms and a scarf. She kept mechanically stirring the wooden spoon in the saucepan. He felt surprised she did not have a cigarette in her hand for once; it seemed to calm her down.

So she was fully relaxed was she?

He smirked again, his boots treading loudly on the wooden floor, but she didn't seem to take any notice, completely nonchalant. She sensed his presence though. The food was temptingly nice smelling, as he stood behind her, the hot air rising quickly from the saucepan.

She stopped her stirring, aware now that he was directly behind her, towering over her. Her breath stopped in her throat, but the best thing was to resume her nonchalance she thought, and continued her stirring of the beans. They were nearly done, and so was the pie, steak and kidney, that smelt gorgeous, despite being a packaged frozen one from nearly seven months ago.

There was a heaviness around her shoulders and on top of her skull, but she knew he was not touching her. He was trying to read her mind again, wasn't he dammit!

Angrily, she put the wooden spoon aside, and attempted to turn round to face him, but his hands clamped hard down on her shoulders, stopping her abruptly.

Her heart began to pound – he was touching her yet again….Yet she could not feel anger, only slight irritation. She would have to turn the beans off.

There was a twist of excitement in her now shortened breaths, yet she did not want to admit it. After what seemed an eternity, he suddenly pressed her hard against the stove. He pressed her so hard against the gas stove that the ignition button and the dials squashed against her stomach.

Thankfully she had turned the hob off. Her face was red from standing so long against the warmth of the stove. The truth was, she had been stood there for half an hour, stirring beans, and burning them to a crisp. The pie would be fine, but as Riddle's wandering hand crept over her shoulder, it would become burnt.

Neither of them thought of anything else other than each other at that moment. She could even his breaths become sharper and shorter, as his right hand travelled down her body, and untied her dressing gown, letting it flop open. She knew what was happening, yet did not stop him.

His touches were slightly aggressive and greedy, but it was firmer and more passionate than Geoff's touches had ever been.

Like this man had wanted her, rather than Geoff. He put his other arm round her abdomen and waist to steady her. He pried off one glove and placed it beside the stove on the counter. Then his fingers stealthily slipped under her pyjama bottoms, and then under her underwear, after teasing around her inner thigh area. He surprised her greatly when she felt his hand cup her lower region tightly.

His long fingers then softly sifted through her tiny curls of hair until he came to her folds and started to stroke her, teasing her for several moments until he finally emitted a moan from her. She put a firm hand on his arm that held her securely.

"Stop it now…" But he wouldn't.

He kept stroking and rubbing her until she became wet, and he slipped a finger inside her. She jerked a little at his sudden, unexpected move, but could not move much, for he was pressing so hard against her. She hadn't had this done in a while, he mused. He withdrew and pinched her clit, and felt her body shudder in pleasure under him. He entered two of his fingers this time, stretching her, enjoying her moans ad her struggles at the same time.

Meanwhile, Stella was in a state of turmoil. How dare he make her feel like this, she screamed in her mind. She knew what he was playing at; he was making her surrender in the most humiliating way possible. So he needed a good fuck, she thought, and she was the only female around.

So fucking her was going to make her submit was it? She could not deny the sudden, aching warmth that spread from the pit of her stomach down to the top of her thighs.

It was a burning, throbbing feeling. Nevertheless, her anger replaced her arousal, and pried his hand away from her. She shoved an elbow into his ribs as hard as she could, hoping she cracked something, and finally he drew away from her, emitting a sharp gasp.

She dared to turn back round to face him, wrapping herself back in the dressing gown, staring at him irately. He didn't appear angry, but sneered at her, and whipped her scarf off at lightning speed. Horrified that he would strangle her again, she whipped out her wand and pressed it against his chest as he advanced on her once more. He smiled eerily, a rather awkward one that was unpractised, and he pressed his body against hers, the dials on the stove once more pressing hard, now against her lower back.

His eyes skimmed along the bruises he had been several days earlier, as if it was his artwork.

"You know I could burn you alive…."

He muttered, leaning right in, pushing her over backwards so that the tips of her hair touched the hobs.

He smirked at her, playing with some of the dials. Her back ached immediately from the pressure.

"I don't know what game you are playing at, Corcoran, but you are not fooling me."

She dug her wand tip into his chin. It was hard enough, and she knew it would hurt, but he just kept smirking at her. How she would love to wipe it off, silence him with one spell, mar that beautiful face of his that always leered at her….He then lifted his right hand up, and sucked on two of his fingers.

Her frown fell, as he sucked them teasingly, knowing fully well where they had been. He seized her wrist than tightly held her wand and pried it away from his chin, and leaned in towards her neck.

"I think I am fooling you, Stella. You were dripping with desire…."

She tried to push him off angrily, but he squeezed her wrist so tight that she was forced to drop her wand.

"You are a manipulative _bastard_!"

She suddenly, antagonistically yelled at him, as high as her voice would go.

He trailed his lips all over her neck, grazing his teeth at her most tender, bruised spots on her skin, and she winced in pain.

"And you are a Mudblood…" he whispered, halting after bringing his lips level with hers.

She realised, that just a moment ago, he had used her name for once. He had used the insult, but it was to state a fact. One of his own facts, but a fact all the same.

"I am your superior, so you will just have to take it…" She burst out laughing, and he leaned back a little, to survey her. His brow didn't cross for once; he seemed genuinely concerned why she laughed at him.

"You are most strange, Magnus Corcoran. Claiming you have some hold over me, still trying to cling to your false ideals, yet we both know we are just two normal human beings; man and woman who are lonely and afraid. And the man is so horny for some reason…."

She added the last sentence as a snort, and this time she had angered him.

"Do not claim to be my equal!"

She stared at him, and then, automatically, not of her own accord, her eyes drifted down to his lips. He had both hands pressed on her waist, and her dressing gown had become loose once more, slipping down her shoulders. She was not sure what she was doing.

Perhaps she could soften him, see what was underneath all those dark, twisted and cruel layers. She leaned in, and touched his lips lightly with her own. He did not respond, completely taken by surprise. She kissed a little harder, nibbling at his lower lip.

Something she would have never done with Geoff!

_What is wrong with you! You have become a feral woman! _

He then realised what was happening, and drove her away roughly, slamming her back into the stove, his fingernails digging deep into her skin.

He was not having any of it.

She had no right to taunt him like that. Kissing to him was far too emotional, personal. She was ugly to him, why on earth would he want to kiss those little chapped lips?

To his astonishment, and hers, there were sudden tears in her eyes, as she forced her dressing down back around her hot body. This was terrible, she thought. I have shown him weakness for the first time, and all because he is advancing sexually on me.

In reality, he was provoking her, provoking her with desires and feelings that she had felt and had felt were not reciprocated when she was with Geoff.

The reality of his betrayal came crashing back down to her. She had those crushing days of reality when she realised she no longer had her Nana. But now, this was the day of Geoff and realising that particular piece of reality. She spun swiftly away from him, brushing past him, not daring to meet his eyes, and running back down to the bedroom, slamming the door.

He had seen her with tears! But he was just as astounded as she. The last thing she saw in her mind's eyes before sleeping that night on the large, comfortable bed was his handsome gaunt face staring back, her scarf hanging down limply in his hand.


	16. Mixed Feelings

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, I really appreciate it :) I hope one day more people will read this story. Any questions or confusions feel free to ask. I hope I make everything clear. This was difficult to write. Luckily, Cat Power fuelled my inspiration. This story's soundtrack is mostly Cat Power ;)**

**MIXED FEELINGS**

Stella didn't bother taking any notice of Magnus Corcoran for the next few days.

She could not, in a frank way of saying it, be bothered with men, and lest of all, someone as bitter and confused as he was. This new feral, predatory desire that had him touching her all over several days ago discomforted her, and she made every inch the effort to ignore him.

In fact, she did not even hide from him. He was doing his best to ignore her as well, always taking the bedroom for himself, leaving her the freedom of the kitchen and the living room space. It was a game, she decided. Who was going to cave in first, and speak? He was too proud, she thought.

She wasn't sure what she thought of him, using her, assaulting her, threatening her, and then sexually assaulting her. Not really assaulting, her mind retorted. Not even sexually harassing, you enjoyed it, you dirty cow….

She closed off her mind's taunts. But he had rejected her own attempt of seducing him, and he had pushed her off aggressively, apparently disgusted with her actions. Perhaps he was unaware if he caved into his own desires if he administered the sexual ministrations, she pondered. Perhaps he is more aware that I am some inferior 'Mudblood' to him, when I attempt a similar action, she pondered.

For a time, he had been out of her mind, as she thought about Geoff and the life that she had left behind. Her little flat in Zedlock she had not got round to selling yet. As far as things were concerned, she was still paying rent for it. Stella shook her head. What time was this to be worrying about rents….and Geoff.

Her little heart ached so.

As the days passed on wearily, and the snow became thicker, and the air grew in iciness, Stella smoked all the last of the cigarettes, and still had no communication with Corcoran. She wondered what on earth was going on in that skull of his.

They were both seated, as before, in the living room. She had picked out some magazines, the only entertainment. There were no books in English in the house. He was still clothed fully, and seated in the armchair, his eyes closed. He must be working out a plan, she thought. Yet, he had done nothing. Both of them could do nothing. The detection charm was stronger than they thought. Any hint of magic and Death Eaters would be upon them mercilessly, ready to take them away to rot in Azkaban.

She sat up, frowning, the throw slipping off her shoulders. Today she was wearing a woollen hat, a woollen scarf, and to her amazement upon finding them, woollen trousers. Underneath, several pairs of woollen tights. It was woolly day. Why on earth were the Death Eaters looking for him? Or the Snatchers to be exact? Then again, it was not Snatchers. Even through her pain upon arriving in Russia, she had seen the dark figures as Death Eaters. Snatchers did not wear great, black cloaks and masks.

She glanced at him, turning her head just slightly.

Her neck was extremely sore, for good reason. She had nearly been choked to the death the other day. She tried to block the feeling of his hands on her breasts, his warm body shrouding her own, the way his dark eyes absorbed her, in yearning. She could only put it down to them being cooped up for two long in this place. All his insulting – how could he be possibly attracted to her?

He was this pureblood supremacist. She had not, despite some jeering from some ignorant minded schoolchildren from Hogwarts who echoed their parents own views, encountered such a violent, Muggleborn-hating man as this one. It seemed like he wanted eliminate them from the face of the earth, making her shiver.

Almost like, it sounded eerily like, _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_, she thought, not even daring to say the name in her own head. If Death Eaters were on her tail, or his, then she couldn't bear to think of the man's name that brought this all upon her. She knew Corcoran was some sort of sympathiser, but she remembered how he expressed wanting to be more powerful than the other dark wizard.

That he wanted to take him down.

How could you possibly be more powerful, her mind kept echoing and echoing. It would be easier now, if he had just done with her, perhaps long ago.

Killed her with the Killing Curse. She almost wished he had succeeded the other night in strangling her. But this, this new set of complicated feelings that lingered uselessly between them, the unspoken words were far harder to bear than any hatred he had directed at her before.

Hatred would be easier, she mused, as she stared around at her prison that had housed them now, for a nearly a week. Beginning to shiver again, Stella woke herself from her troubled thoughts, and wandered over to the kitchen, to open yet another can of soup. She boiled some water on the stove to make some tea. There was nothing fresh left in the house.

The only food there was, was canned and frozen food. There were several cartons of fruit juice. All the alcohol had been drunk. She opened the can of soup, frowning, checking to see what flavour it was this time. She sighed, dumping all of it into the saucepan.

It was chicken, yet again. The creaminess of it made her sick to her stomach, but she had to eat. So did he. Stella glanced up, seeing from under the cupboards above, his legs. He was not moving. For a reason she did not know why, she walked slowly around the counters, back into the living room space, and towards him, swallowing. He seemed rather normal, harmless even, as he sat dozing in the armchair. She prodded him, hard, in the shoulder, and he flinched awake, his wand in his hand.

She briefly glanced at the wand in front of her, swallowed again, and stared at him straight in the eye.

"I have soup on the stove."

It was a statement, not a question.

She did not want to ask him whether he wanted to eat or not. He let out a breath, sat up a little, his wand still in his hand. There both sat and stood there for a few minutes, studying each other. He drew his brows together in disdain, or confusion at her choice of clothing.

She had bulked herself out. She was smart, he thought, not sure whether he was being serious or sardonic. He was well aware of his cold hands and feet, the icy air penetrating whatever skin was on show. His great black cloak was not as thick as he had thought it to be when he had acquired it.

"You can put the wand away."

Her voice was husky from both heavy cigarette smoking and lack of use. He held his wand tightly in his fingers for a moment longer, relishing it, longing, so very badly longing to use it once more. But he put it on the arm of the chair, not exactly putting it away.

Satisfied, she turned back round to the kitchen. The smell of the soup wafted eventually towards him, and he sucked in its tempting smell through his nostrils. Why did she bother telling me? He thought, standing up, stretching himself.

He needed to bathe, he thought. He shook his head suddenly. This was ridiculous! Being told by an inferior Mudblood that she had soup going and that he needed to bathe! He had to work out a plan sooner or later. He was not sure if his followers would have come after him, to Russia, in order to look after their base, or to begin the hunt for the thing he needed the most.

It would be easy to complete everything, do what he wanted.

The question was getting out of here first. He started towards Stella, thinking if he built up his strength first with food, it would be less difficult to try and think of a plan, to escape. He would use her, he thought. Let them capture her, they will be distracted, and I can make my quick escape. He would not need to travel far, for his base, conveniently was close by.

But he would make sure to leave a non-traceable spell in his path. He would give her peace for the moment; lull her into a false sense of security. Before he alerted the charm, and then land her into the arms of the Death Eaters. Perhaps they would kill her on the spot. She had surprisingly reached out of the cupboard with a couple of bowls in her hand, and placed them down with a clatter.

She jerked a little when she saw his tall, dark posture enter from the corner of her eye, watching her like a hawk.

She didn't give him much soup; he hadn't been eating for days. Even if she wanted to give it him in the hope he was to vomit it back up, it would not work, he would not be so stupid, and leave the rest to waste. So she gave him little. It was infuriatingly unnerving to have him stand so still, and watch her so closely when she was intent on doing something. Like he was undressing her with his eyes, or x-raying her, seeing what was beneath her placid exterior.

She got out a couple of spoons, turned to eat at the table in the middle of the kitchen, leaving his food on the counter. It was a few, fair minutes, before he walked slowly, cloak swishing, towards his food and placed it down on the table next to her. She didn't take any notice of him, and continued to blow at her hot soup, swallow, repeating the entire process.

She hadn't made him any tea, and took a couple of sips in content. As he sat down, a rush of air from him flew towards her, and she breathed in his scent, trying to hide the purposeful, nearly subconscious action she had made. He definitely smelt like he hadn't washed in days, and the wool of his cloak smelt of woodsmoke. She crossed her thighs together, frowning into her soup.

The smooth chicken soup to her looked like vomit, and she played around with it.

He ate with good manners. While she leaned over with her elbows on the table, he sat up straight, taking tiny sips at the soup, while she slurped at hers. He caught her eye once or twice, but she made sure she didn't linger the gaze.

He had finished before her, and delicately put his spoon down, clearing his throat. She forgot about him for a moment, hand in chin, swirling the disgusting soup around. She was thinking of Geoff, and wasn't sure why. She thought of Corcoran's hands on her, and suddenly missed the physical contact. She missed how she would often go to his every night, spend time with him, despite him being busy with work.

He ruined her thoughts by talking.

"Either pour it away, or eat it."

She looked up, frowning at him. He was just sitting there, staring at her darkly. His hair was greasy, and not as neat as he had kept it in the past. A couple of curly strands fell loose into his right eye, left to her.

"You sound like my mother," she mumbled, half wanting to throw the bowl of soup at his face.

He didn't respond to her, continuing to gaze at her with disdain. She continued to eat it, knowing she needed the energy, if she was to make another attempt at escape, or if she was going to counter another violent attack from him. The only sound was the clatter of the metal of the spoon against the earthenware bowl.

"What house were you in?" he interrogated suddenly, his eyes wide.

She jumped, turning to face him. He was now slouched in the chair, arm draped over the back of the chair, watching her with a keen eye. She scowled at him, wandering why he wanted to divulge this information from her. It was useless information that he could probably taunt her with, so she gave him the blunt, honest answer.

_Hufflepuff._

There was a smug, self-satisfied look on his face, as he regarded her, drawing his legs apart, so now he appeared like a sloppy teenager. She just sat still, hunched, chin cupped in her hands, frowning at him, pretending to think he was just so as she thought.

"I won't bother asking you the same, the answer was determined the first time you knocked me off my feet."

His smug look fell a little. She did not like the way he was sat, his crotch on display to her, now that he was slumped, and his cloak was splayed around him. He was trying to intimidate her, in a different way this time. She felt somewhat revolted.

He then chuckled abruptly, a deep, dark laugh, and her cheeks became a little pink with sudden fury.

"Of course, I might have suspected Gryffindor, such _nerve _you have. But, a Huffle-snuff! How matching, how typically quaint. I couldn't suspect any other houses would have the audacity to drop out such as you."

She sighed angrily, and got up from the table, taking both of the bowls and clattering around loudly.

"I don't have the patience, wishing I could say 'time', to listen to your taunts. You have worn everything out now."

He seemed immediately incensed by her attitude and sprung up from his chair in an instant, the chair falling backwards with a loud smash. She ignored him, and started to fill the sink with lukewarm water, the warmest the water could get. She turned her back on him, and started to wash the bowls and spoons.

"I don't think I have the patience with your attitude!" he snapped childishly back at her.

She began laughing at him, now finished washing up and draining the sink. He noticed she wasn't wearing her usual abundant scarf today, and the bruises on her neck were clearly showing. They were horrific; he swore he could see his own fingers imprinted in her skin. Not that he contemplated a word such as 'horrific', he seemed rather impressed at his own strength.

She stood right in front of him, her head level with his sternum.

"You can keep taunting me, insulting me all you like, making me feel weak and inferior you conceited blockhead, but you are just as weak! You proved it, several times only a couple of days ago! You think you are above petty human emotion, but you are so full of passion you simply could not keep your hands to yourself. From violence to lust – you are a whirlwind of emotion!"

She said it, nearly laughing, while waving her arms about, spitting in his face. She watched him became irate at her words, but she enjoyed it, loved it. It was typical to her, that he should be angry, his face, attractive at times, was morphed into a constant mask of fury.

Stella had always been a rather genial, quiet, laid-back person who had kept herself to herself in most situations of her life.

She had never, on any account, stood up, and shouted at someone as much as she had done with this strange man. This man whom she could not work out, who had impersonated a teacher and now kept her prisoner in this cabin!

She knew he could apparate them out of the place leaving a non-traceable charm in their midst. She knew he would not do such a thing as it would be too risky, it would serve him well if he alerted the Death Eaters, left her in their hands, and escaped away. Not as stupid as you think I am, her mind echoed at him, almost wishing he had heard. However, she was not confident enough to tell him of what she had worked out. She turned away from him suddenly, leaving him to stand in the kitchen and turned back to the bedroom.

Her head started to thump with a migraine. She slipped down on the bed, drawing the covers over her. She expected to hear smashes next door, him taking his fury out on the furniture, but it was all quiet. Her head throbbed too much for her to be unnerved by his silence, and felt her eyes close, sleep dawning on her.

When Shelley had woken up, she was in a peculiar state of confusion.

The dream she had about Geoff had been so vivid and intense she for some time couldn't distinguish between the dream and reality.

When she came to her senses, she realised what a ridiculous dream it was. It could have been likely true. Elsa and Geoff, together. She remembered painfully about Elsa's relationship with Geoff, how they were great friends. How, when Stella was away working at Hogwarts, she'd hear of Elsa going to visit Geoff up in London when he was on an important call.

In the dream, childish as it was, she had been wearing her best dress, but he had barely noticed her. Instead, he had been listening to Elsa's glorious tales of whatever she had recently done with her life.

Stella, having hidden for one month away from home, and lived at home for four months had never allowed the time to heal herself. She had never fully allowed herself to grieve her Nana, and her broken heart, which was so broken from her betrayal and losses.

She noticed she had become awfully hot in the woolly sweater under the bedcovers and yanked it off, stopping midway in sudden fright when she glimpsed a bare back in the bathroom. She tugged the large sweater off, dropping it on the floor, and stepped up, smoothing the bedcovers over, and wandering towards the door.

She wanted to leave him to it, whatever he was doing, but curiosity had got the best of her. His skin was very pale, almost as if the sun had never seen it, but it was rather flawless.

It stretched tightly over his muscles and bones. He needs to eat, she thought musingly. She realised with a sigh he was tending to his wound, wondering if had become better. She didn't want to know, remembering the last words she spat at him, feeling a mug of tea would be more pleasant than his stares and jibes. The door creaked open, and he spun around at lightning speed.

She jumped, reading for him to whip his wand out and curse her, but he didn't. Stella now saw the full extent of his wound. It had not healed very well, and she could see it was slightly infected. Dear God, she thought, wanting to roll her eyes.

"So I see you've let it become infected," she said, deadpan. He just smirked at her.

"Well, since we are in a Muggle house that would be the way of it."

She didn't want to bother with this right now, and crossed her arms.

"So you are risking your arm becoming infected, and perhaps your body, and amputation, merely because of your pride? You'd rather be physically wounded than morally wounded?"

He just frowned, and continued to swipe at it with a cotton pad, briefly holding it under the tap. Still, something overpowered her hatred and fear of him, and she stormed back to the bathroom, pushing past him forcefully, not liking the way he smirked as she brushed past his bare torso. S

he rifled through the cabinet, and saw the 'Savlon' was missing, probably chucked out by him. However, she remembered it had been running low, and found a new bottle on a little shelf beside the bath. She thrust it at him, sighing. He did not touch it, looking at her intently.

She tried, with every sense of the word, not to look at his torso, at his nipples, anything. She just rested her gaze on the bridge of his nose, between his two eyes. A usual thing she did with people whom she did not like very much. So why was she becoming a bit warm at him standing there in his half-naked glory?

Well, they were strangers.

That was all there was to it. However, when she forced herself, out of necessity to top him, and prove that a Muggle potion could work just as well as a magical one, she dabbed the liquid on his arm. It must have stung greatly, and the pus from his wound ran down his arm a little.

There were still some bandages about, thankfully. While she did this, he was intent on staring right through her, almost. It annoyed her, more than unsettled her.

_You really do want me, don't you, Magnus, _she taunted her in head.

She realised, now that he was back in his normal appearance, as opposed to the one had first known in Hogwarts, his skin, or body as a whole was rather young looking. She thought him to be at least thirty, but that was his other appearance. He was virtually the same age as her, although she could not be sure. It was his dominating height, and clothes that made him appear older, not to mention the neatly parted hair and the frowning, dark brows.

As she stole glances, even at the skin on his face, she saw there were one or two slight pimples on his forehead, a mark of youthful, but oily skin.

He was one of those lucky or unlucky men who did not grow much hair on his face, although it was slightly darker around his mouth than usual. She had realised, with annoyance at herself, she had been studying too closely, and he had probably done the same. He had that trademark smirk of his on, plastered across his face.

"I know it's difficult not to admire, but it is rude to stare, Shelley," he spoke, his voice tingling in her ear.

She scowled at him, pressed down on his wound hard, making him wince a little, and flushed the bloody cotton pad down the toilet. She made to exit the room, but he clamped a long-fingered hand down on her shoulder tightly, and spun her around.

"I can't wrap a bandage on my own can I," he teased her.

"Well seeing as you claim to be so wonderful and adept at virtually everything, I'm rather surprised you have spilled this little secret."

He reached for her neck, but she instinctively ducked and went back for the door, breathing hard.

"You are making me lose my patience." She rolled her eyes.

"What a surprise, you seem to lose it so often. Try and catch it before you lose it, it might help these days."

He spoke nothing more, but glared at her, all tease vanished from his features. She reluctantly wrapped the bandage, tightly around his wound, which seemed to be taking longer than usual. He wouldn't lift his arm, like a sulky child, and her fingers were trembling, from where he had tried to grab her neck again.

If he wasn't going to strangle her, surely he'd break her neck instead.

"Tell me, Corcoran," she began, quietly. "I know one thing of you; no doubt you are in Slytherin. So how old are you?"

He glanced at her, a rather strange look in his eyes, as if he was surprised by her question. The look changed to a casual 'why do you care to know' but resignedly, he mumbled his response, and she barely managed to catch it. Thankfully, her ear was close to his mouth.

He had been leaning in towards her the entire time she had wrapped the bandages. _Twenty. _She couldn't believe it. She thought him to be at least five, give it eight years older than her. He confirmed he had been in Slytherin house, adding the fact he was a Prefect and Head Boy. She ignored this, suddenly, as a terrible churn whirled in her stomach. She remembered him talking to Slughorn, many months ago now, while she waited outside Slughorn's office.

_Ah, well you remind me of a wonderful teacher I used to have in Durmstrang…back in the day._

That was part of his lies, again, she thought. It was rather unnerving, all the same.

"How could you possibly be twenty?" she whispered.

She hadn't noticed, lost in her thoughts that he had reached around her to put the Savlon bottle back, and was standing behind her, playing with a lock of her hair, at the back of her head.

"Why, you are the same age, are you not, Shelley?" he purred behind her.

"Twenty-three, last month," she thought, wondering if it was still May, and had not moved into June while they were here, in this prison.

She turned back round, astounded to have him so close to her now, regretting entirely that she had ever helped him out.

"I smell you, and I want you, Shelley."

She raised her eyebrows as she turned to face him. So he had smelt her hair had he?

"Pandering to your age are you? The teenage boy needs to burst out of his boxers does he now? How will you ever wash my Mudblood filth off you?"

He chuckled at her words, making her grimace. But she didn't stalk away. She didn't want him to put his hands on her neck again, and she crossed her arms defensively. He smiled a rather garish smile that did not suit him at all. It did not match that sinister and famished look that was in his eyes.

"Seeing as I will kill you in the end, I do not think it matters."

He just wants to toy with me, she thought angrily, and forced herself away from him, and from the bathroom, her heart beating wildly. Where would she run? He'd catch up with her. She remembered her words that she would rather suffer him and die, than die running away from him.

How she longed to run for freedom now out in that snow! But it was impossible – he would have to rape her and kill her as he so desired. It was his plan. A sob suddenly emitted from her mouth. It was an uncontrollable sob, a sob of realisation; that her entire miserable, failed life was going to come to a rather nasty end. _What was the point in even living? _

She tried to wrench the door open, but saw he was now beside her, his hand strongly forcing the door back. He saw her tears, rolling down her face. She was hiccupping from her sudden sobbing. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, to admit it. He was at a loss what to do. She had been the only woman he had ever targeted specifically, and abused, and even then she wasn't a target, just a mean to his ends.

All his enemies had been males, and they had not cried. Not in his presence, and if they had cried, it was cries of pleading for their life or in pain from his curses. He had seen other girls cry, but it might have been at school; a girl taunted by another, or some girl who had been injured in Quidditch.

Well, that was not emotionally linked, he pondered. He had never seen someone sob like she did. It was not whimpering or mere crying. It was heart-wrenching sobbing, like a wave of melancholy had washed over and drowned her. She turned to him, trying to catch her breath.

Her eyes were red, her nose swollen. She is hideous with these tears that I do not understand, he cried in his mind. Perhaps he wasn't above petty human emotion such as anger. But he was certainly above _this. _This pitiful whimpering, he decided, after all.

"Please, just kill me now. I cannot stand it any longer. Why should you bother with me? Just make your escape plan now. Throw me to the Death Eaters and escape. I do not care any longer."

He let go of the door, but she was slumped against it, still crying so desperately. He wrinkled he nose in disgust.

"You are so _wretched_. You have just proved yourself to be everything I so despise."

She whirled around, and struck him across the face, but it wasn't strong enough. He barely moved, but felt the sting a little on his cheek.

"Then why am I still here, so wretched! Why do you inconvenience yourself? I have done most of the hating by myself! I do not need you to do any more despising. I do wonder so, have always wondered, why I am such a special case. Then again, I couldn't give a damn what you thought. Your opinions to me are completely invalid."

She opened the door, letting it bang hard against the wall, hoping he would come after her and strangle her, but he did not. He left her to her crying, as she slumped down on the couch, in utter despair and self-loathing. She soon found herself under the influence of sleep, this time, without any dreams.

Stella woke with a throbbing headache, unsurprised that she did.

Her eyelids, she could tell, were swollen, and her face ached from her excessive crying. It was an unbearable pain, this throbbing, but she straightened herself up. It was miraculous she was still alive, as she yawned a little and scanned the room nervously like a deer for any sign of him.

She flinched greatly when she saw him, behind the counters, boiling the kettle on the stove.

She clutched at her wand that was hidden under her sweatpants, ready for an attack. But it was difficult to concentrate, as her head beat hard, her vision becoming a little blurry. She laid back down, wand now out of her sweatpants, ready for him, even as she was lying down.

She heard his footsteps slowly approach her, once she had finished hearing him faff around with his tea. His footsteps, loud and heavy on the wooden floorboards, drew so close to her now, and her blood was pounding in her ears. She nearly gasped, when all that he held in his hand, was a cup of steaming hot tea. He didn't smirk at her this time, and he certainly did not have his wand in hand either.

Frowning a little, she sat up, and watched him place the cup of tea without milk in front of her on the coffee table. She saw a packet of pills beside a stack of magazines, but since it being in Russian, was unable to read it. She felt astounded at his actions. He had only admitted to her earlier he was going to have his way with her, and then kill her, or let her be killed.

She saw, which might have made her giggle in another time, he had chosen, probably unaware a mug with small, black hearts all over it. She almost felt touched at his gesture, but stopped the feeling right there. She did not want to feel anything for him, or from him. He was sat in his armchair, tapping at his wrist watch. Sighing a little, he took it off. The watch had stopped working.

He chucked it onto the coffee table.

"What does this say?" she asked him, holding the pill packet up.

She wasn't sure why she asked, not really hoping he would speak Russian. She was wrong, for he did.

"Paraseeteemool," he tried to pronounce, a frown on his face, as he did not understand what it was.

She took two pills and dry swallowed them, before correcting him.

"Paracetamol." She thought this might have irritated him, but whatever annoyance he might have experienced he did not show it, and watched her.

"What is it?" he asked softly, so innocently, she thought.

"Painkiller. A drug…."

She knew he would not understand and would not expect him to, if he was wizard in and out. She did wonder….He must be pureblood, she concluded. To have such strong, prejudiced views like that. He had been brought up with it ingrained into his mind.

And so violent, only at twenty!

"You can read Russian?" she asked, feeling she said it like it was more of a statement, while raising her eyebrows.

She had not taken a sip of the tea yet and eyed it warily, wondering if he had slipped something in there. God knows what else was lying in the pockets of his robes. She felt the pills had not quite gone down, and felt desperate to sip the tea, but would not touch it.

He observed her wariness, and leant back in the chair, almost smirking. He seemed to ignore her first question.

"I have nothing to poison it with, so you are quite safe," he answered for her, but she would not take it, as they let five minutes of silence pass.

In the meantime, he had shrugged his outer layers off, which was his cloak and thick robes, only leaving him in a woollen pullover and threadbare, worn trousers. She noted the ends of his trousers were tucked under thick socks, all under heavy army-like boots. He liked to stomp about in them, Stella mused.

He started towards her, and she lifted herself off the couch at lightning speed, heart already pumping, her wand tightening in her hand. But Corcoran simply chuckled, and reached down for the cup of tea. He took a large sip, and carefully put it back down on the table.

Frowning, she still stood there, watching him warily, like a frightened deer. He laughed again, tipping his head back and crossing his arms. It seemed like a genuine laugh this time.

"Poisoning you to end you would be no fun," he teased her.

She swallowed a large lump that formed at the back of her throat, which had nothing to do with her pills. Her heart was still hammering away, refusing to be tamed, refusing to calm down when he was talking about her upcoming death so casually.

She made to turn back round, but he ordered her to stop, rather loudly. She didn't, breathing more slowly now, gazing at the old, shabby floorboards beneath her.

"I cannot bear this any more," she spoke in nothing less than a whisper.

She heard his boots thud, but it was not any closer to her. He walked backwards back to his armchair and sat back down, the leather creaking. Stella slowly twisted back around, her eyes falling on him immediately. She could not bear this tension anymore. She could not bear her miserable life, with her constant anxiety; the memories of the past year haunt her until she was raw with self-loathing.

If he was going to end with her, just let it be now, and painlessly. The killing curse. _How that would be any different to being poisoned I wouldn't know. _Her sarcasm surprised her. She was still old Stella, in some ways. Corcoran sat there, very still, eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"Drink the tea, _Muggle,_" he then said rather coldly.

She ignored his tone of voice, and the way he had spoke the name 'Muggle' and re-took her position on the couch. She did as he asked, but only because she needed to get liquid down her throat.

She drank it all in one gulp, and slammed the cup back down on the glass of the coffee table in smug satisfaction. Stella didn't stay around him for much longer. She could not bear to be in his presence for much longer, especially as he might make the final move on her. Deciding a warm bath would be good to relieve her of her tensions, and help her think straight about what she was going to do; Stella left the tall, dark, brooding man behind her. She ran the bath only midway, and it was only slightly warm.

She slammed the door shut and climbed into the bath, clothed with some lighter, linen slacks and a t-shirt.

If he was to break down the door, at least she wouldn't be naked. She would die with some dignity. She filled the bath up more when she slipped inside, smelling the strawberry scent of the bath bubbles already relaxed. If only she had a book, any book.

Even a dictionary; she always had a lot of pleasure getting some reading out of that. She heard him pacing in the room next to her, thankfully not the bedroom. Without anything to read, and with the clear sound of his pacing reverberating through the wall, she could only contemplate what he was doing.

He was pacing. Then he sat himself down.

Then he made himself a hot drink, presumably tea, for she never knew wizards to drink coffee. Then, her heart began hammering again, as his steps drew nearer, and nearer.

She was so still in the bath, and his steps were so loud and forceful that the bath water rippled. In fact, it rippled a little at her chest, for her heart was beating so frantically. He was in the bedroom, she surmised, staring at the door, mouth half open. Fear rooted her to her spot, unable to slip away from the bath. The water came up to her chin.

Abruptly, the door jerked in its frame, and she recoiled in horror, gasping, trying not to let loose a scream of terror. The door handle moved, and the door slipped open. Stella had been unthinking in her fear, for she had forgot to lock the door.

She stared at him, and frowned a little. His feet were just clad in the thick socks, and she could almost, in another time, call that rather appealing. She always liked it when Geoff walked around in his socks.

"I want some privacy, get out," she threatened, her voice trembling.

He laughed at her again, irritating her greatly now, briefly the feeling overtook her terrible fear.

"Privacy? Clearly that's why you have worn your clothes in the bath. Either that or you have lost your mind."

Breathing heavily through her nostrils, she flung herself up, splashing water everywhere, grabbed a long, blue towel, wrapped it very tightly around her body, and pulled the plug. It was hot and steamy in the bathroom now, with the windows all clouded.

She didn't do anything more, and tried to storm from the bathroom, when he captured her around the waist, pulling her back round, nearly lifting her in the air, and into him. Her nose bumped against his chest painfully. But it seemed a relatively safe, almost playful gesture.

"I think both of us have lost our minds…" she whispered, gently, letting him, undoing the towel she had wrapped around herself like a defence only seconds ago.

Her hands were on his scratchy, woollen pullover, that she knew most definitely he had obtained from the wardrobe here. He was wearing dirty Muggle attire, and touching a dirty Mudblood, she mused.

He put both hands on her neck, his long fingers drawing to meet at the back, and in a spilt second, she panicked, and tried to pull away. But it seemed it wasn't his intention to kill her, for now. He shushed her, gently. He then tilted her neck upwards, and studied all the bruises he had left on her neck, feeling inexplicably turned-on by it. He pressed his lips, softly on all the bruises he made on her neck, halting when he came across the pulse below her jaw. Her blood was pumping extremely fast.

He smirked into her skin, as he dragged his lips all along the base of her jaw. He was not expecting her to move, thinking he was doing well already at seducing her, when she moved extremely suddenly, and kneed him in the groin.

Tears springing to his eyes, most likely out of pure anger, he fell against the door, but she wasn't leaving. Her hands were soon on his pullover and she ripped it off, catching one of his ears in the process. He had sunk against the door, partly unaware of what she was doing, more preoccupied with the agony he felt in his crotch.

She started to tug at his shirt, but he recovered soon, and halted her, by grabbing her wrists and tugging her away.

"What the hell are you playing at, Shelley?" he seethed. She laughed a little at him.

"I could ask the same. If you are going to do it, then I'm not the only one who is going to be naked."

He raised an eyebrow, but made it difficult for her as she struggled, becoming red in the face. Having lost patience, she ended up by ripping it off, and he laughed at her. She was becoming angry, for the first time in a long while. She slapped him across the face, wiping that smile off him immediately.

His black eyes glowered at her for a long while, as the stretch of skin over his high cheekbone turned a light rosy pink. He seized her by the straps of her vest top, and hauled her upwards into the air, before dragging her across towards the large bed.

Her heart was beating very hard still, unsure whether they were fighting or….she could not think of the word for it. His hair had become all spiked from their brief struggle, probably his own struggle, the way he had slipped down to the ground, and eyes clenched gave her a somewhat large scoop of satisfaction. He stood over her, clad in just his trousers and socks, while she gazed upwards at him, eyes wide. His long fingers reached down and peeled her outer garments away.

He didn't touch her properly until she was completely bare underneath him. The cold air stung at her skin which had barely surfaced for the past couple of weeks. His brow was crossed, as if he was studying her body closely, as if for an examination. Fed up, she seized his hand and pulled him down on the bed with her, breath hitching. He took his own trousers off, and socks, and slowly moved down towards her on the bed.

They were lying, side by side, staring at each other. His fingers played up and down her body, down at the rounded stomach, over her thighs tantalisingly, and captured her right breast in his hand, kneading it.

She was at the point now where her body was throbbing in want, not from him as a person, but from him as a partner, a man. Stella wanted to meet his lips, but the last time she was met with scorn.

She placed her own hand on his torso, stroking the tiny, few hairs he had on his chest, but not brave enough to travel further down. He drew her further to him, pressing her against him, her ear against his chest. His own heart was pumping furiously. His fingers, cold fingertips, began teasing and stroking her below, and she suddenly felt him against her. Her own hand began doing the same to him.

She was not sure what to expect from him. It was almost as if he was being hesitant in his movements. She lifted her other hand, and put it to his lips, peeling them open. Corcoran didn't notice the woman's bony fingers affectionately touch his lips. Even if he had noticed, he wouldn't have taken note it was affectionate. No, all he wanted was a goddamn release. She fell for his ministrations.

At last, she had submitted to him without the usual backlash.

He became a little rougher with her, making her jerk slightly, unused to it.

Although she was ultimately aroused by his ministrations, she was also confused. He was being awfully strange with her. He didn't look at her in lust now, it was rather coldly.

As if he wanted to get it all over with. Was it her fault that he was attracted to her, or that he had grown sexually frustrated in this cooped up cabin? How could he be frustrated? He had the power of his own mind and hand. He didn't need a Mudblood like her to shoot him to the stars….

She was abruptly pulled out of her musings when, without notice, he entered her without so much as a hint, or a touch. He pushed her hand away from his lips, burying his head in the junction between her shoulder and neck, pressing his mouth in a sensitive area for her.

He was kissing her. She felt the brief pain of him entering her; she hadn't done this for a fair while. However the pain subsided immediately when she felt the all pleasurable sensation of him fill her totally. But there was something missing. He supported himself, leaning over her, on his elbows on either side of her, and concentrated on his own pleasure, as if she was not even there.

After a few minutes, while he was still pleasuring himself, in a world of his own, and she was not enjoying it, she tried to reach both hands up to touch that hair of his.

"Put your hands back down…Don't look at me…" he barked at her, startling her.

He wasn't even touching her now, he just kept going, eyes closed. She felt he had just driven a knife through her heart with his words. He was barely breathing, he was just moving, back and forth.

Stella was not even breathing, and felt, for the first time, violated, used. How she so desperately wanted to touch him in this moment. He was achingly beautiful, to her, above her. Others may not agree with her, although she doubted very much so. His normally neat side-swept, wavy dark hair was tousled and spiky.

There was sweat on his upper lip, touching a few hairs that had grown in the past few days. His pale body, unlike Geoff's, was lean and athletic, perhaps a little too bony. Geoff had been slightly tanned in places, his skin squidgy, held no real hair apart from the mop on his head.

Stella realised, with a slight twinge, through all the mess she had got herself through, that she was attracted to this man. She would not have looked twice if he were on the street, although she supposed other women would have gaped at him. He was unusual. He was hurting her now. She was no longer wet, and he was fucking her dry.

"Get off me!" she shrieked suddenly. She felt embarrassed about being attracted to him, and her entire body heated up, her face flushed. He was raping her, she felt. She wanted to do it, the right way! The way it was supposed to be! How badly did she want him to kiss her!

She knew the man; the man with the dark hair in her dreams had been him. Strange dreams, places she had been to in her life, with him there, leaning over her, breathing in her ear. He was slightly taken aback by her shriek, but he was not done yet, not even sure why he kept going. He couldn't get the climax he wanted. Why was that? He thought he was attracted, but he was not…just frustrated.

Stella's hands went up to his neck, and clamped around his strong neck in one smooth move.

He choked out in shock, and Stella grappled him, and they crashed to the floor, with her landing awkwardly on her side. In the fall to the ground her hands had come off his neck, but she didn't continue her efforts. Standing up shakily, she reached for her throw, and pulled it tightly around her body.

He stood up as well, facing her angrily, in all his naked glory. He was scowling darkly at her. Stella turned from him, walking towards the door. A sob welled up in her throat, and she tried desperately to stop it, but it wouldn't back down. She felt ugly. Disgusting. She span back around.

"Don't _EVER_ DO THAT AGAIN! You son of a bitch!"

She had yelled at the handsome man who stared back at her. She really wanted him to suffer, perhaps comment on the size of his penis, make him feel small, but it would not work. She would just make herself look like a fool; it was not the school playground after all. She was sobbing through her words now, tears falling. How ugly, useless and pathetic was she!

There was not a drop of alcohol in this house to soothe her. Only cigarettes and her loneliness.

"By all means, you could have spared me some pride. You are twisted, beyond my understanding. Merlin knows what goes on in that brain of yours. Well, you've had your nice little _fuck, _now why not kill me! Because I welcome it! I am ugly, and worthless, a mere Muggle by your standards!"

Her breath hitched, in, and out, and the tears continued to fall down her face. Her permed hair seemed lank. He ignored her, and turned to find his clothes on the floor. Methodically, he picked them up, and slid them on, without saying anything.

When he had finished, he walked towards her, but it was as if he was looking straight through her. He stopped in front of her, breathed out through his nostrils, paused in thought, glanced at her briefly, and reached around her to turn the door handle open.

"Please, move out of the way, Stella," he spoke politely.

She gazed up at him with her brown, trembling eyes, but he was not looking at her. He had spoken her name. It was almost affectionate. She was not going to move, but he hardly touched her as he moved around her delicately to exit the room. She saw him leave. He reached for his cloak, slipped his boots on without doing them up, and left the cabin with a simple slam of the door.

He left a deathly silence behind. She was alone. He had left, into the white abyss. What was he to do, apparate? He would be tracked. What was he to do? She stood there, for around half an hour, frozen, aching, the tears dried on her face. He had left, at long last, her to freedom.

Perhaps she could try apparate herself. But she would be tracked. Besides, she had splinched herself last time. Moreover….she did not want to leave.

She wanted him to come back. She wanted to talk to him. She decided she liked the banter between them, perhaps the slight teasing. She didn't like his insults. But deep down, she had a feeling there was some sort of insecurity under his mask. He couldn't have meant what he said; otherwise he wouldn't have wanted to have sex. She kept reasoning with herself, back and forth.

She had an inexplicable need to explain, to chat to him like a normal human being. To make love like a normal human being.


	17. AUTHORS NOTE

Dear readers,

This is only an author's note. Really sorry I haven't updated in a fair while – last year of university and I've been tremendously busy. Hopefully, when I go home for the holidays – I will have an update, so we're thinking somewhere in Dec ;) I haven't given up on this yet at all – stay tuned!

Love,

Maggie


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